


Mesquite

by Corvid_Knight



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Embedded Images, Gen, Nonbinary Main Character, as in i drew a ref for mesquite lmao, look i know i'm known for homestuck BUT, this is not what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:06:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Professor Mesquite specializes in finding pokemon for trainers with specific needs, and in finding trainers for pokemon who're a bit more difficult to match up. Some clients are more difficult than others.update 3/30/2020:Mesquite now has their own tumblr blog!Requests for specific things you'd like to see here or questions for them are welcome!
Comments: 78
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Mesquite (yes, you are entitled to have "Professor" before it; no, it does not actually go there, not when you have a say in it at least) and you have exactly thirteen minutes to finish your latest strongly worded letter before the clinic opens. There's not much chance you're going to make that deadline, but that's all right—it's not like Oak's replied to anything else you've ever sent him. Bastard—it's not like you're asking for something _unreasonable_. Just genetic samples from the legendary pokemon that you know pass through his lab with a frequency that's downright unfair. What you couldn't do with a Zoroark, a Ditto, and a sample from say, a Darkrai...but no, he has to be _difficult_ about it.

Eh, maybe you'll move to Rowan next. Or Elm—doesn't he have a reputation for being easier to work with? One of them should be more reasonable...and if they aren't, well. You're about ready to pack up a few case files and take a nice rail trip. Not that it'd _be_ nice—public transport is a godsend, sure, but for you specifically it's a nightmare. Too many unknown people at once in an unfamiliar and unpredictable enclosed space, all the unnecessary sensory input...not a great combination, honestly.

Hm. "Cardtrick, remind me to check biking path mileage from here to major research centers?"

The little Abra doesn't move from her spot—crosslegged on the counter, eyes closed and hands neatly folded in her lap—but the dry-erase marker smoothly rises from its spot on the shelf under the board, spelling out a note in a decent imitation of your own distinctive handwriting.

She's just finished underlining the words when the two-minute warning on your tablet goes off. The marker goes flying, and Cardtrick cracks open one eye to give you a guilty sidelong look as you get to your feet and stoop to retrieve it. It'd be funny, almost, but... "No, I'm not mad at you. You did a good job, don't worry."

She relaxes at that, very obviously relieved, and hops down from the counter to go unlock the doors and flip the sign from _Closed_ to _Open_. You put the marker back where it belongs, close the notebook on your half-finished letter, and pull open a drawer to fetch the pokeballs for the pokemon who'll be helping out today.

Hm. Cardtrick's already out, so you've already got someone to fetch files and make notes. The Houndoom you received from a rescue group last week will do for guarding the private room you use to interview visitors; he may still be skittish around some people, ready to bristle and show his teeth if he thinks he need to protect or if you ask him to, but as long as no one gets violent he's a big, affection-hungry baby. Whoever named him Baby was probably trying to be cruel, but you have to admit it does fit him.

For the waiting room, you choose Edgar, the Murkrow given to you by a pair of siblings who'd inherited him from their elderly mother—he may be a bit raggedy, a bit less adorably fluffy and reassuring than the Skitty and Absol you select to join him in the waiting room, but he's _also_ more apt at spotting impending meltdowns or sensory overloads than almost any other pokemon than you've ever worked with, and that's saying something.

That brings the number up to five. While you _can_ safely bring out more than six pokemon within the confines of the clinic, you don't really like to, and there's really no reason to—Thursday traffic is never that heavy, and everyone else will be perfectly happy in their pokeballs for business hours...although you do pause to make a note that you need to remember to coax the Arcanine who arrived last weekend out of his pokeball, get him to start working with the new prosthetic paw one of the engineering students fabricated.

That's for later, though. Right now you have three visitors already waiting for you.

* * *

Well, two. One of them is a woman who's brought her son—although that may _technically_ be two people, you're fairly sure it'll still be just one session. They'll be the second one of the day, though; the goth-looking teenager wearing an expression that suggests they'd be more comfortable being literally anywhere else is the one Cardtrick points at when you step into the doorway. She's got good judgement; you’re not sure that the kid would still be here if you took care of someone else first.

On the form Cardtrick hands you, the goth kid's written a name, erased it, and written in a different one. You could maybe make out the first one if you tried, but you don't really need to do _that_ , now do you? "Agate?"

For a second, you think they're going to bolt...but they just follow you into the private room, pausing to give Baby a quick scratch behind his horns in passing. You note how his docked stub of a tail thumps against the tile; Agate may have checked _Starter Pokemon_ as the reason for their visit, but they've definitely been around canines before.

Even though you've already read through the form, you scan it again as they get comfortable in the chair across the desk from you. Once they're not quite so stiff and terrified on the edge of their seat... "So, you're here for your first pokemon?"

"Uh—yes ma'am. Sir. Professor."

"It's just Mesquite." One day you will find an appropriately nongendered and unpretentious form of semiformal address, and on that day you will put it on every nametag you own.

"...okay. I know I'm like, six years late for this—"

"Oh, we have people older than you come in for their starter all the time, don't worry." The last one was a twenty-two year old who'd only just been able to move out of his parents' house; he'd had the choice of a pokemon whose ownership would have been conditional, or no pokemon at all. You're just glad he came to you when he was able to make his own choice; here he had a much wider selection than what most centers provide to children. "Do you have any idea of what you want?"

"I mean, I've always liked Normal-typings, I guess...but Fire's okay, though. I'd probably go with Fire."

"Hm." You think about the way they looked at Baby. "You like canines, don't you?"

Agate perks up immediately at that. "Oh, yeah—my dad used to breed Granbulls. He'd have me pokeball-train the Snubbull puppies before we rehomed them."

Granbull line...damn. You tap a search into your tablet and wait the few seconds it takes for it to fetch the results from the clinic's database. "Hm...we don't seem to have anything from that line, but I've got..." Another search, slightly wider this time. It takes longer too; you really need to borrow a Rotom or a Porygon or something and have them take a look at it. "A Lillipup that's _almost_ ready to evolve...an Arcanine with a amputated back paw—you'd have to wait for him, though, he's not quite ready to leave without some more training...a Houndour...oh, a Yamper?"

"Aren't those native to Galar?"

"Yes, but I've been working with a few professors from other regions to take rehabilitated pokemon." Although you only have this one because she developed an allergy to a Galar-specific pollen; she's gentle enough that you've been cycling her as a greeter in the clinic, which means she'd probably make a good starter. "You'd have to register with the clinic to adopt her, though—I'd need to be able to call her in for breeding if someone else needed a Yamper."

"Oh." Agate thinks it over for a moment, picking at their chipped blue nail polish. "What about the Houndour?"

You should have expected it. "Well, she's definitely available. She's not _quite_ as calm as Baby out there on the door, though—she'll take a lot of exercise, especially when you have her out of the pokeball for a day or more at a time."

"Puppies are like that," Agate agrees with a brief, bright smile. "But, like. Don't starters usually have a basic elemental typing, though?"

Ah, if you had an Ultra Ball for every time you've been asked that. You could start a store. "At centers and some labs, yes. It's partially to teach younger children how to use elemental strengths and weaknesses; I believe that you'll still learn that even if you start with something other than Fire, Water, or Grass."

"Oh."

"We have leaflets on typing, if you want to take a few with you."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

"Great—one minute, please." Another few clicks and the Houndour's been moved to the _adopted_ file; you hit the button to print out the adoption form and hand it over as soon as the printer spits it out. "Fill that out and take it to the Abra at the desk; she'll file it for you and give you the pokeball with your new starter. You get to pick a name for her, by the way." Most of your rescues come with names, but this one was still young enough that her previous owners hadn't gotten around to giving her one. Either that, or they didn't care enough. "The leaflets are in the waiting room, across from the desk; take as many as you need."

Agate takes a moment to scan the page; you look down before they look up, but you still see them smile out of the corner of your eyes. "Thank you!"

"Thank _you_ for giving her a good home. Can you tell Cardtrick to get the next visitor ready and I'll be there in a minute, please?"


	2. Chapter 2

Cardtrick has the next file ready for you when you step into the waiting room; you start to scan the first page and experience a brief moment of utter confusion before you realize that it's not actually one of the forms you use in the clinic, but a copy of a printout from a human doctor's office. From an immunologist, actually...hm. There's two full sheets of information, which you flip over to get to the information you need to start out with—name and reason for visit. "Alice and Terry?" 

You finish reading through the clinic form as you lead the woman and her son to the private room, giving Baby the hand command to move back from the door so they can pass safely. He whines at that, eyes squeezing shut as he settles down flat on his belly on the tile; you'll need to reassure him that he didn't do anything wrong later. He can't help it that he has fur, after all. 

The little boy climbs up into the chair across from your desk; you have to hide a smile as his mother grabs the back of it _just_ in time to keep him from starting it spinning. She shoots you a look that you think is meant to be apologetic as she pulls the second chair away from the wall where you keep it when it's not needed. "I'm sorry, I know we should have called ahead—" 

"No, it's fine." You're the only one who answers the phone most of the time when the clinic's between interns; there's a decent chance she would have just gotten the machine anyway. "So, you're looking for a different starter than what another professor provided you with?" 

Alice nods; Terry makes a face and informs you, "I have _allergies_ and the stupid professor didn't belive me!" 

"Terry—" 

"He didn't! He said people aren't allergic to pokemon and that even if I was, I wouldn't be allergic to feathers—" 

"Oh, you definitely can be allergic to feathers." And Terry is. It's on the printout in nice bold letters; you _hate_ it when you're reminded that most pokemon professors don't bother listening to the children who come to them. Or maybe they do listen, but they don't care to take the time to work around the restrictions when there's this many...hm. He's allergic to feathers, canines, felines... "Have you thought about a Turtwig?" 

Alice clears her throat. You glance up and see that she's wearing a sheepish expression. "Second page." 

You flip to that. Oh. "Allergies run in your family, don't they?" 

She nods. "Mine aren't nearly as bad as Terry's, but I don't want something that he can't have out at home—I know he'll need bonding time, but the school asks children to keep their pokemon in the pokeballs during classes so he can't just have his out there like I have my Pansage out at work." 

"I completely understand that." Even if it does complicate things a bit. You pull up the database and start applying filters—reptiles, canines, felines, avians...what else. "Do you know if you've had a reaction to anything that's not on the list?" 

Terry looks at his mother for permission to answer that; you personally don't see the signal, but he must receive one. "My study partner's Furret, a Sableye at the museum, a Buneary one of the teachers brought to science class when we were learning about training for bond-specific evolutions...uh..." 

"The service Ursaring at the movie theater." 

"Oh yeah, him too." 

...hm. When you add all of those and the phenotypes closely enough related to qualify as related allergens to the filters, it really does take out a large chunk of what you have on hand. "All right—I have some Ghost types?" 

But no, that's not going to work. Even with your direct line of sight focused on your tablet, you see the kid flinch. His mother confirms what you already know. 

"Terry's a little afraid of Ghost types." 

Well, damn. "I can work with that." One more filter...okay. "Eevee line?" 

Alice shakes her head. "We've had incidents with Espeons, Umbreon, and Glaceon, so I don't think that's an option." 

Ah. Add that one too. "Maybe something a bit more aquatic? Most people don't want to start with a Magikarp—and that's okay—but maybe a Goldeen or something?" 

"I don't _want_ a fish." Terry huffs out a breath that's got a bit of a tremor to it; shit, you hope he doesn't start crying. You'd understand if he did, but you're probably going to look like an ass when you utterly fail to deal with it. "I can't be around anybody else's pokemon and I can't touch the one I got given—I just want a normal starter, it's not _fair_..." 

"Terry, don't—" Alice starts. You shake your head and interrupt her. 

"It's okay." What you don't do is pause in your scrolling. You'll find something that works here; you always do. "Making the right match is my job, you know—we'll get there in a minute." 

Terry sniffles. "Isn't your job finding out more things about pokemon?" 

"Well." Marill line? No, Pichu's listed on the list of known allergens. "There's not much of a point to just collecting information if you don't use it, and I choose to be on the 'using it' side instead of the 'collecting' side." Wait, what if... "Do you have anything woolen at home?" 

Terry looks at Alice; after a moment's thought, she nods. "He has a scarf he wears in the winter at home; why?" 

"Oh, perfect." You pull up the image attached to the file you've landed on, leaning across the table to hold the tablet out to Terry. "Most wool used in clothing is harvested from the Mareep line; if you've worn wool products without any reaction, you're probably not going to have one to the pokemon itself. What do you think?" 

"She's really cute..." 

"That's one's a he, actually. We can see about getting you a female instead if that's what you want." You only have one Mareep available right now, and there might not be any in the adoption network you have access to...but that's only because they're easy to rehome. More come up all the time, and if nothing else you can always talk to someone who raises them for wool about getting a female. 

"Boys can be cute too." Terry shrugs, zooming in on the picture. "He's really going to be able to sleep in bed with me and everything?" 

"He should be able to, yes." You hold out your hand for the tablet; when Terry surrenders it, you backclick to check where the pokeball's stored. Bottom drawer in the green filing cabinet, excellent. "If you want to come out to the yard, I can let him out of his pokeball and you two can get to know each other." 

Terry nods enthusiastically, hopping down from the chair as you get up and step over to retrieve the Mareep's pokeball. Alice, though...

"You're _sure_ he's not going to be allergic to this one?" she asks. Even with your back turned, you can picture the worry on her face just from the tone of her voice. 

Honestly, you do understand it. "About ninety percent sure." Ah, _there's_ the ball. Interestingly, it's a Premiere Ball instead of a plain pokeball or even a Great or Ultra; this Mareep must have been especially important to his first owner. "If you're worried about it, I can bring the emergency kit out, but I don't think it's going to be necessary." 

"...that'll be fine." 

You're not sure if she means that she trusts your judgement on the probability of Terry having a reaction to the Mareep, or that she thinks having the kit on hand is a good idea. Either way, you pause to grab it off the shelf as well before you lead the two of them out into the yard.

* * *

An hour and a half later, both you and Alice are satisfied that Terry and the Mareep are a good match for each other. He's already got a new name, since there wasn't one listed in the file you received when he was donated—Cinnamon, because of the faint auburn tint of his thick wool. 

Since that's decided, you bring out the Hitmonlee who's the current designated yard babysitter, and take Alice back inside to fill out paperwork. That ends up taking a bit longer than it usually would, since she asks if you can add Terry's allergy information to his file and make up a list of probable safe pokemon...but by the time you've finished, you've found a decent number that he should be able to interact with without any problems. Some of them are rare or not native to this region, sure, but even so he should be able to assemble a good team with a little bit of work. 

By the time that's all done and they've left, the waiting room is still empty. You get a bit more work in on the letter you're writing—maybe half a page worth—before Cardtrick starts tossing office supplies at you through the open door. 

"Stop that." 

She cocks her head to the side, watching you for a second. Then one of the pencils on the floor rises a few inches, wobbles thoughtfully, and flicks itself across the room to land in the middle of your desk, spinning a few times. It comes to rest pointing at your tablet. 

"Hm." You pick the tablet up, turn it on, and see the time _right_ before the alarm you have set to remind you to eat lunch and take your meds goes off. This time you manage to dismiss it halfway through the first beep; perfect. "Okay, okay, you're right, there was a reason to throw things at me—you want to pick where we eat today?" 

Cardtrick nods, levitating the pens and pencils still scattered across the floor back up to clatter into the cup on the counter. When you step back into the waiting room, she hops from the counter into your arms and climbs up to perch on your shoulder, getting a grip on the shoulder strap of the bag you carry your pokeballs and other useful items in with one paw. By the time you get the waiting room pokemon safely into their pokeballs and finish promising Baby that you'll be back in a little while and you'll feed him then, she's flipped the sign in the door over, switched off all the lights but the one by the door, and tucked a flier for her favorite food truck into your back pocket. 

You pause in the doorway to pull that last one out. "Hm...am I going to need to walk more than three blocks for this?" 

She shakes her head, pointing with the paw that's not occupied with hanging on. 

"You looked up where they were parked today before you decided, didn't you?" 

That gets a nod. She's _such_ a smart girl; you have to smile as you let yourself out and let her point out where you need to go.


	3. Chapter 3

You eat outside, at the picnic table in the yard outside the clinic. Cardtrick turns up her nose when you offer her some of your noodles, but she's more than happy to pick through the fried rice and find every single piece of carrot in it. Those probably don't have all that much nutritional value for a pokemon like her—in the wild, Abra eat mostly insects and rodents—but it's not like it's going to _hurt_ her, and she's having fun with it...so you just let her be. One of the other pokemon can have whatever she doesn't eat; you know you've got a Gogoat who could use a treat. 

It takes you a while to eat, like it always does—the sun's moved to beat down on you before you're half done. Cardtrick curls up on your jacket as soon as you take it off and lay it on the table. 

"Are you keeping that from blowing away?" As usual, she doesn't make a sound in answer to the question, but one ear flicks back when you reach across to smooth down the sleek golden fur over her spine. Her breathing evens out almost as soon as you take your hand away—Cardtrick has sleep habits more suited to an Alakazam than an Abra, taking a few short but deep naps a day rather than one long shallow snooze. She's still just as sensitive to danger in her sleep, though, which can be a problem sometimes. 

Not that it's going to be an issue right now. It's not like there's many potential sources of danger available here and now, after all. 

She does stir a bit when your phone beeps with an incoming text, though. You absently reach over to soothe her with a hand on her back as you check it; it's from Allayah, giving you a head's-up that she'll be asking for a video call sometime tonight. The warning's nice; even through you text back and forth with her every day, send letters and visit on weekends, something about video calls is hard for you, and that doesn't change even when it's your girlfriend on the other end. You should be able to handle it just fine with the extra time to mentally prepare, though. 

You text her back with a promise to answer when she calls, and add a pic of Cardtrick curled up in your jacket with her tail over her nose. Allayah's still sending heart emojis back when the alarm telling you that it's time to get back into the clinic goes off. 

Cardtrick doesn't even twitch when you scoop her and your jacket up. You guess you'll be running the waiting room for a while, then.

* * *

As it turns out, that's not really a problem. Thursdays are usually slow, and today continues to not be an exception; you show two young trainers with underleveled pokemon how to use the machine you had installed when you accepted that people _will_ continue assuming that this is a pokemon center, refill a diabetic Litten's medication, and do some more work on your letter. It's up to three pages, front and back; you're going to have to do a lot of editing on this one. 

Or maybe you'll just scrap it altogether and start over. At this point, you're beginning to suspect that you might need to start making an actual effort to shift your casual focus to something else; there's no way you're going to send this letter as it is, and you _know_ you'll just keep adding to it until it's time to send it. Then again, it's something to focus on when you're not doing any real work, and you _do_ need that unless you want to completely disassociate for the entire time. Plus, this way you do end up getting a letter a week to Oak, and maybe if you send enough he'll give in and at least respond to you. You're plenty patient enough for that. You can—

The bell over the door rings, and you look up. You...vaguely recognise the kid standing there? She came in with her father a few months ago, to discuss dietary supplements necessary for breeding a female Luvdisc with a Ditto. Both her and her father were nice—nothing there to trip your decently sensitive problems alarm, at least. Nothing that'd explain why she's standing there in the doorway, very obviously right on the edge of tears. 

Oh damn it. You can't remember her name. It's always easier to calm the younger kids down if you use their names...oh, well, you guess you'll work with what you have. "Hello there—is something wrong?" 

Well, she's calm enough to answer. It comes in the form of a quick nod, and her clutching the pokeball she's holding a little closer to her chest. 

Hm. Not too informative, but that just means you have to work a bit harder. "Okay. Are _you_ hurt?" 

Another head-shake. 

"So you're here about your pokemon?" 

A nod. You guess that makes sense just about everyone treats this place as a pokecenter anyway, at this point. You sort of remember her father talking about how she didn't really want to start training until her Luvdisc hatched; she's probably just had her pokemon knocked out for the first time, and that's enough to upset anyone. 

You get up and come around the desk, flipping the switch to warm up the rejuvenation machine on your way over to...Louise? Was her name Louise? Hopefully that's right, because that's what you're going to go with. "Louise, it's okay if your pokemon fainted. It happens to everyone—every single trainer has their pokemon get knocked out sooner or later. All it means is that they're learning. Want me to show you how to use the machine?" 

Well, she doesn't correct you on her name, and she _does_ shake her head at the question you end your little speech with...but you don't think it's because she already knows how to heal her team. No, you're pretty sure you just guessed wrong about the problem at hand. 

Time to back up a couple steps. You resist the urge to sigh and/or push your glasses up to rub at your eyes; you _hate_ being wrong. "Okay. You don't need to heal your pokemon...can you tell me what's wrong? Or show me, if that's easier?" 

Louise nods, very reluctantly, and shifts her grip on the pokeball in her hand. So it's that one specific pokemon, okay. "My egg hatched, but he's...not right." 

Hoo boy. 

Yes, you've handled pokemon with birth defects before—they're not exactly common, either from wild-caught pokemon or from breeders—but the fact that you're one of the few professionals who willingly chooses to provide information and resources for disabled pokemon as well as disabled trainers does tend to get around. It's a little difficult explaining to kids sometimes, though. "Okay, do you want to take him out of the pokeball, please? The only pokemon out in here is Cardtrick, and I promise she'll leave him alone." 

For a second, she definitely thinks about saying no. Kids trust professors, though; after a moment, Louise takes a deep breath and holds out her pokeball, cracking it open. 

Long practice lets you blink at the perfect moment to avoid the bright flash of a pokemon emerging from its pokeball, but you still catch the telltale shimmer in the air as you open your eyes again. Even if that wasn't enough to tip you off, the pale orange hue of the heart-shaped fish currently making slow, lazy circles around the room would _definitely_ do it. 

Louise is just as impressed as you are, but from the way her chin's trembling, her surprise isn't nearly as positive. "What's wrong with him?" 

Ah. Nobody told her about color variants. You glance over to see if Cardtrick's noticed that you could use a bit of help in the form of handout retrieval; sure enough, she's already pawing through your stock of informational leaflets, looking for the right ones. Perfect; you can do the verbal part of the presentation now, then. 

"Okay. There's nothing wrong with your pokemon." The pokemon in question pauses to nudge curiously at your hip; you dig around in a jacket pocket and come up with a handful of treats. Only two of them are actually edible for fish-type pokemon, but you separate those out and toss one to him. A, that's a good way to make sure he'll identify you as someone positive; B, it lets you check his reflexes. (They're fine; he catches it before it hits the floor.) "About one hundredth of a percent of all pokemon—one in four thousand—hatch with a different coloration than what's listed in most databases. They're called _shiny_ pokemon, or just shinies; a lot of people spend a lot of time trying to get one. That's what he is." 

She blinks at you, then looks over at her Luvdisc. (He's currently examining one of the perches you supply for bird-type pokemon. You'd have to do more tests for it, but you really think he has a Curious nature.) "So...I didn't do something wrong for it to happen?" 

"There's not really a lot you could do to hurt an egg, don't worry." The shells of captive-bred pokemon eggs are tough but slightly flexible, only gaining the brittleness that lets them be broken in the last week or so of incubation. By then, the pokemon inside will be ready to survive on its own, even if the egg's accidentally broken. "Did he eat any of the eggshell?" 

"A little piece." Louise nods, digging in her pocket. "He's not that big, so he didn't want that much..." 

"That's fine—you can save the rest, if you want to." Cardtrick scampers up to your feet, levitating one of the envelopes of pamphlets that you keep prepared for situations like this in front of her. You snag it out of the air, handing it over to Louise so you can lean down and scoop up your own pokemon. "It's just for that first boost of minerals—if you ever hatch a pokemon that's not interested in the shell at all, you can come pick up supplements for them here." 

She nods, still examining the contents of the envelope. "Are these for me to take home?" 

"Exactly." It's always interesting to see who asks if they get to see the handouts, who just assumes that they do, and who sits down in the waiting room to read each one before carefully returning them to their spots in the rack. "You should go show him to your father—I bet he'll be proud of you." 

"Really?" 

"Hey, not everyone hatches a shiny." You smile at her, and she smiles back as she opens the pokeball and calls her Luvdisc back into it. You watch her until she's out the door; once she is, Cardtrick catches a strand of your hair between her claws and tugs gently. 

Hm. "What?" 

Another gentle tug, with an added squirm to let you know that it's time to put her down. When you do, she pounces on the rack of leaflets, sending a few flying. Not that they go far—even as she digs through a stack, the ones she knocked out halt midair or rise from the floor where they fell, floating back to slot themselves neatly into their correct spaces. 

Even with how long she's been with you, you're always impressed by her fine control over her telekinesis. Not many psychic-types could manipulate that many items that well, especially when each item needs to reach a different and specific destination. You're still thinking about that when she sends a pamphlet spinning across the room towards you. It's just as well-aimed as the ones she put away; you have no trouble at all catching it. 

Hm. It's a map. "Are you reminding me like I asked you to, or telling me that I should make up my mind about what I want to do?" 

Cardtrick cocks her head, perching on the empty top row of the rack of pamphlets. After a moment, she chitters at you—one of her very rare audible responses. Well, you guess that's definitely an answer. 

"Alright, come on. You can help me look at routes."


	4. Chapter 4

Cardtrick knows more about the geography of the area between here and the town you intend to travel to than you do, which is interesting to say the least—you know that her previous owners traveled, but you don't think she spent all that much time out of her pokeball, and you're almost sure that the owners that she was taken from to come to you didn't spend too much time in this region, let alone in this area. She didn't get this knowledge from you, either—your travel experience is pretty much limited to this town and maybe ten kilometers around it, just enough to be able to visit Allayah and her boyfriend. You didn't even manage to attend a physical university; all the courses you needed to be certified, you were able to take online. 

Hm. Maybe that's got something to do with why you don't feel comfortable having the title you've earned appended to your name, if you're being honest. It's stupid—you _know_ it's stupid, you minored in psychology and you haven't just forgotten the definition of imposter syndrome, after all—but that knowledge isn't helping. You know you deserve your title, you know you're not masquerading as someone that you're not, you know that you didn't cheat to get here. You belong where you are, and you're doing a good job of it, but...

Cardtrick stretches up on her hind legs to press her forehead against yours, bright golden eyes blinking slowly at you. It's an act of affection and of concern—how long have you been sitting here staring blankly at your penciled-in routes on the map, exactly? 

Probably too long. You lay the pencil down and tip your head to kiss the velvety bridge of Cardtrick's muzzle. "You know, one day I'm going to get you registered as my therapy pokemon." 

She flicks one ear back, fluffy tail rearranging itself around herself as she sits back on her haunches with her paws neatly folded in her lap. 

"I know, I know. That'd mean having someone else put you through tests, and you hate that." But she does like being pet by you, though; her eyes squinch up as you reach up to scratch behind her ears. "I wouldn't do that to you, sweetheart." 

Cardtrick's tail unwraps, then resettles around her counterclockwise rather than clockwise. The pencil rises from where you've laid it, and starts making quick, precise notes on the map. 

Hm. "Is that how you tell me that you're in charge now?" 

She huffs out a breath and bumps her head against your hand. You guess you'll take that as a yes, with an added suggestion on how you should pay her for the favor. Which seems more than fair; you hide a smile and settle back in your chair to keep giving her scritches, reminding yourself to listen for the door since there's no one in the waiting room to warn you of visitors.

* * *

You still don't hear the bell over the door when it rings—today just isn't a good day for your ability to remain aware of your own surroundings. Baby whines when the visitor steps into the hall, though; that gets your attention focused well enough that you manage to get up and out of the private room before he has to either growl or bark. 

Not that there's much danger of that, as it turns out—the Houndoom's rolled over on his back when you step into the hall, stub of a tail thumping against the tile as a teenager in what looks like a very lovingly customized jean vest rubs at his belly. Baby only stops whining when you lean down to pat his head, wordlessly assuring him that he's not being a bad dog right now. 

"Sorry about that," you tell the kid. He just shrugs, flashing you a little smile and holding out one of the forms from the desk in the waiting room. "Oh—okay, come on in here then." 

He doesn't answer, but he does follow you into the other room. You take a moment to scan the form; his name's Stan, he's left a few important fields blank, and added a note of his own at the bottom. 

Ah. "All right, I do know sign language—" 

Nope. He's already shaking his head. 

"That's fine; can you write or type? I have a notebook. Somewhere." Wait, there it is; Cardtrick's already nosing it across the table. "Or you can text me; my number's on the back of the form." 

Stan reaches across the table, flipping the page over with one hand and pulling his phone out of his pocket with the other. A second of typing later, your tablet chimes with an incoming message. 

_Sorry about that. I thought I'd be fine with talking if it was just one on one but like. Yeah no, sorry._

"It's fine, Stan—you're not the first nonverbal person to come in here, don't worry." You have a handful of regulars who're nonverbal, selectively mute, or deaf; adjusting to the difference in communication is nowhere near the biggest challenge for you, honestly. "Now, you didn't check a reason for your visit on the form; can we talk about that?" 

He makes a face, fingers darting across his phone. _I wasn't really sure what box to check? I mean, it's not like you have one for "I can't talk to my pokemon half the time and I don't know what the heck to do about that."_

Ah. "It's more common of a problem than you'd think. You're having issues with making yourself understood, not issues with obedience, right?" 

_Yeah, exactly._ He hesitates, sighs, runs one hand through his shaggy dark hair, and goes back to typing. _My starter's been around since when I could still force myself to talk even when it was bad, so he knows how to guess what I want. I guess I could just try to figure out how to make it work with just him, but Chatots are social—it doesn't really seem fair to work with just him. Plus, it feels like I'm overworking him—I avoid trainer battles as much as I can, but I can't just not go where there's wild pokemon._

"Spreading out battles between multiple pokemon is always a good plan, yes. The social aspect probably isn't as much of a problem as you might think—unless you're _totally_ avoiding social contact, he's likely getting the socialization he needs with humans and other pokemon." 

Stan nods. _I try to spend a lot of my spare time at the park where he can hang out with other trainers and pokemon._

"Exactly. That's good for you too, you know." You nod at one of the patches on his vest—right shoulder, the rainbow infinity symbol like the one pinned to your own jacket. His looks handmade, though; you really need to replace yours. "I know it's hard to handle most social situations, but humans are just as social as pokemon—and we tend to do even worse without human contact." 

_Yeah, I sort of figured that one out when my parents let me switch to homeschooling. Hanging out with people in the park takes care of a lot of it though._

"Great—that's not what you came for, though. Sorry, got sidetracked." Hm...this is going to take some creative filtering. You swipe out of the text screen and open the database instead. "Most pokemon can actually learn hand signals rather than the verbal commands—I can give you some resources on training them like that before you leave. For the time being, though, I can give you...hm." There's a decent chance he's not going to like this option, but it really is the most suitable—you received this pokemon as a donation from a retiring languages teacher; it's very close to a perfect match. "Well, I have a Mr. Mime." 

Stan laughs. It's a soft, almost embarrassed sound; he covers it with one hand, then drops it again to type. _Can you even catch those around here?_

"Not really, but this one was a donation." One that you're quite thankful for. "He can teach you sign language, or just the hand signals for common commands; if you end up not bonding with him well enough to want to keep him as a permanent team member, I'm always happy to take him back once you feel confident that you can handle training more pokemon yourself." 

_Sounds lit._ He hesitates after sending that one, frowning at Cardtrick for a moment; then he looks down at his phone again. _Do you take donations? Like, I know you can just go out and catch your own Starly around here, but I feel bad about just releasing mine into the wild again, and I don't know if she's going to do great with being trained for hand commands after my mom already brought her up a couple levels for me._

"I can find a good home for her, don't worry." How common a pokemon is doesn't really matter to you; if you need something specific, it's much better to have it on hand instead of putting everything on hold to go track one down. "You'll have to fill out another form, but you'll still probably be finished by the time I find the Mr. Mime." 

_Wait._

You pause halfway through reaching for the printer. "Wait?" 

_No, like. I get him now?_

"I mean, you don't _have_ to, if you don't feel like filling out paperwork." You shrug and finish the motion you started before, hitting the button on the printer anyway. Might as well have them ready for later, right? 

_It's just, like. Most places have a waiting period of adopting anything uncommon?_

"Oh. That. Well, Mr. Mimes aren't exactly invasive or predatory; even if you did release him for some reason, he'd probably just head for the nearest population center and get caught again." 

_I mean, I wouldn't release him._

"Well, then." You double-check what the printer's spat out, offer Stan a smile, and slide the pages across the desk. "Can you fill those out for me? It'll take me a couple minutes to find the pokeball; you can send Cardtrick to find me if you have any problems." 

When he nods and gives you a thumbs-up, you get to your feet and head into the other room. Hopefully you're right about what drawer the pokeball you need is in—you haven't been in that section of the storage room for a while...

* * *

Well, it takes you a bit to find it. You're not really sure how long, exactly—your time sense is kind of shit, especially when you manage to get properly focused on a task—but it can't be _that_ long, since Cardtrick's comfortably settled in Stan's lap when you step back into the room. She's feigning sleep, too; _you_ can tell she's awake, but from the smile on Stan's face as he strokes her head and back, he definitely can't. 

She rouses and hops back up onto the table when you sit down again, though. You hand over the pokeball and pick up the papers to check that they've been properly completed and add your signature where it's needed. 

Halfway through _that_ , your tablet chimes with another text. Stan's hands are nowhere near his phone when you look up, though; you think for a moment, and decide to finish the form first. As it turns out, that's a slightly questionable decision, even if it's perfectly logical. 

"Shit." Cardtrick pulls herself up onto your shoulder as you read through the message, rubbing against the side of your head. You don't know the number, but the formatting doesn't leave much doubt that it's from one of the emergency response teams. "Stan, I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have to leave—Cardtrick, can you get him the right handouts, please?" 

She bumps her head against yours one more time, then leaps to the desk to do as you've asked, leaving you free to get up and find your stash of Ultra Balls and the compact first aid kit. With any luck, you'll only need the former...but hey, better safe than sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesquite now has their own tumblr at [askprofessormesquite](https://askprofessormesquite.tumblr.com/)! Please give it a look!

When you enter in the address you were given in the text, your GPS directs you to a neighborhood that you definitely could have walked to. Biking is faster, though, and even if this doesn't seem to be a code red, life or death emergency, you still feel like you need to arrive in a timely fashion. Otherwise, someone else might end up trying to resolve the situation, and _that_ won't end well, will it? 

The van already waiting for you is the one that emergency services usually uses for the removal of displaced but not critically dangerous pokemon; no wonder you didn't recognise the number that called you. Usually they can handle whatever they're called out to deal with; your interactions with emergency teams tend to run more towards the results of unfortunate human/pokemon interactions—sudden death or injury, breakdowns, hoarding and abuse. Still, there's always an exception or two. 

You carefully park your bike in the driveway, get Cardtrick to loosen her hold on your shoulder strap and settle down a little bit, and head for the little knot of uniformed people who've apparently converged by the side of the house, right where the porch meets the main building. 

Wait. Shit. You have to introduce yourself. You have to introduce yourself _in a professional capacity._ Shit. Fuck. Why did you not rehearse this part on the way over? Too late for it now. Wait—no, it really is too late to rehearse now. 

Well...shit. Take a deep breath and do your best, you guess. 

"Hi, I'm Professor Mesquite—someone sent me a message?" You probably didn't need to make that a question instead of a statement. Cardtrick purrs almost too low for you to hear, rubbing her face against the side of your head; she _knows_ you hate this kind of social necessity, she's trying to help. 

One of the team members—a dark-haired woman with freckles scattered over every bit of exposed skin—straightens up when you speak, stepping back from the corner of the porch everyone seems to be so interested in. You use examining the newly-open spot as an excuse to not meet her eyes; the wood's splintered there, a few boards ripped out from the barrier that's meant to keep any pokemon from getting up under the porch and setting up housekeeping there. 

"We think it's a Weavile or a Gengar," she tells you, as you move up closer and kneel down to try to get a look at the area under the porch. No luck; it's dark enough that all you can see is a couple feet of scuffed dirt. It's soft enough to hold prints. but if there's any there they're so smudged that you can't get an idea of which one you might be about to encounter. "Something with dark fur and claws, anyway—the homeowner's being treated for lacerations where he tried to grab it. Alan swears he tagged it with a tranq dart, but if he did it doesn't seem to be working, so..." 

"Ghost types are resistant to most tranquilizers. Dark too." Yeah, you can't take Cardtrick in there. She clamps down on your shoulder when you go to put her down, though; you sigh and sit back on your heels to start the process of prying her claws off your shirt and the strap of your bag. "I'm going to need you to hold her once I get her off me, please." 

"Uh...don't you want to put her back in the pokeball? Just in case." 

"No. Here." She does take Cardtrick when you hold her up, at least; you guess that's something. Once your little Abra accepts that you're not letting her come along and stops squirming, you strip off your jacket and lay it up on the porch, settling your bag's strap back onto your shoulder and carefully squeezing through the gap left by the broken and missing boards. 

As expected, it's really dark under here. That's okay, though; you crawl a few feet in, until you can't see much of anything, then stop and close your eyes. Breathe in, breathe out, open them—still dark. Close them again, breathe in, breathe out, and _still_ dark. After two more repetitions of that, though, your eyes have adjusted enough to see. Kind of. Almost certainly not as well as whatever pokemon's decided to take refuge under here—they'll never adjust _that_ well—but enough that you'll be able to identify whatever might decide to claw your face off. 

Not that that's going to happen, of course. You've never actually lost any body parts handling wild or feral pokemon, and somehow you doubt that this is where you're going to break that streak. There _is_ something under here with you, though—you can hear it even if you haven't spotted it yet, a low and constant growling that's coming from...

There. You shuffle around and see the pale reflection of almost-not-there light reflected from wide eyes. It's smaller than what you've been led to believe, but that doesn't really surprise you—everyone thinks of feline-phenotypes as fully domesticated pokemon; people forget how much damage they can do when they're really afraid. And the Purugly backed up into the darkest corner it can find down here is _definitely_ afraid—it puffs up its dark grey fur as you try to figure out a way to crouch that won't have your legs falling asleep in under a minute, ears pressing back and white teeth showing as it hisses at you. It's small, for the breed—if you had to guess, you'd say it's only recently evolved. Someone didn't check a 'dex to see what their tiny, manageable Glameow was going to evolve into...and, when they were taken by surprise, chose to just abandon it. 

Why the _shit_ are people like this? Any reputable center will take unwanted pokemon—hell, you actively _ask_ for them—and Puruglys are known for being easily trainable as babysitter or therapy pokemon. The trainer could have given it to a school, even. But no, they had to just...leave it somewhere. 

Now is not the time to get angry about anything, though, so you just take a deep breath and fish a pokeball out of your bag. You don't toss it out, though, not yet. "Hey there, sweetheart." 

It hisses again, following that up with another low growl. Yeah, there's no point in even trying to get it in the pokeball yet. 

That's okay. Just keep talking, low and calm. "I know, I know. It didn't end so well the last time you let someone try to catch you, huh?" 

Hm. Interesting—the Purugly's been around people enough to recognise the verbal cadence of a question. It stops its low growl for just a moment, tail twisting back and forth behind itself as it cocks it head to the side. The growl starts up again after another second, though, those reflective eyes fixed on you as it waits for you to move. 

Well, that can wait another minute too. "I'm not going to hurt you, don't worry. Were you someone's pet? That seems about right to me—competitive battlers usually don't care quite so much whether their pokemon all fit an aesthetic." You guess there's always exceptions to that too, though. Your left hand's still empty; you hold it out, just waiting to see what the Purugly's going to do. 

It considers the same thing for a moment, warily tracking your hand until you stop moving it. 

"It's okay, sweetheart. Come on, I know you don't want to be under here in the dirt—there's cleaner places I can take you to, I promise. Safer ones too. Come on..." 

The Purugly stops growling, as you shift forward. It doesn't hiss; you assume that's a good sign. If it was just a _little_ less dark in here, you probably would have seen how it tenses, realized that you needed to back up _now_...but no. You reach out, miss whatever little warning you're given—and the pokemon's paw comes up, all four primary claws fully extended. All four of them score, too; you bite down on your lip to stay quiet as you raise you hand, examining the four bleeding slices across your wrist. 

The Purugly blinks, when you just shrug and lower your hand—sure, it's messy and it's going to hurt in a second, but the claws didn't catch a vein or anything else really important. Now, some people will claim that pokemon that aren't at least slightly humanoid can't really show surprise, but that's definitely what you're seeing here. You wonder—did the trainer who abandoned it do so at least partially because of the mood swings that sometimes persist immediately after evolution? Maybe this pokemon's scratched a trainer before, and been taught to expect punishment for it. 

"I know," you tell it. "It's not your fault, I know. I scared you. I should have known better." 

Another second of your sitting there quietly, and the Purugly unhunches itself a little, takes a tentative step forward to sniff at your fingers. It sneezes and pulls back after a moment, sitting back on its haunches and looking up at you with what you read as a mixture of wariness and expectation. 

Okay, maybe _now_ is a good time for a pokeball. You keep talking as you sit back on your heels and hold the one in your right hand up. "I bet you know what this is, right? Now, I don't think I'll be able to catch you if you _really_ want to fight, but we're going to try it anyway. It's okay if it takes a couple tries, I swear." 

It cocks its head again. When you stop talking, you get a single soft meow in response; you take that as a green light to roll the pokeball into the little space between the two of you. It comes to a stop, cracking open; you see the Purugly eyeing it curiously, as you close your eyes. 

You don't open them when you see the flash of light, tinted red through your eyelids. No, you wait until you hear the tiny _click_ of a pokeball locking; when you do open your eyes, it's to the sight of a safely shut pokeball, which you scoop up in your right hand and tuck into the front pouch of your shoulder bag as you turn to crawl back towards the hole where you came in. 

Hey, you're not going to have to do your own first aid this time! _Hell_ yeah.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: panic attack, attempt at _extremely_ mild self harm by way of stress stimming

After the twenty minutes of being fussed over by Cardtrick and three of the members of the response team—everyone who has the paramedic certification, in other words; none of them can believe that you purposefully got within scratching range of the Purugly and came away with just the (admittedly nasty) cuts across your wrist—and the fifteen more to bike home, you're getting tired. In all fairness, you'd probably have been tired without this little field trip—you just have a limit on how much human contact you can stand in one day, and you're getting close to reaching it. 

Not so close that you feel the need to flip the sign over and go home early, though. You'll be fine for what's left of the day, especially if the traffic stays at what it seems to have settled at—nothing, in other words. You file the Ultra Ball with your newly captured Purugly in the "Pokemon that need therapy and/or resocialization" drawer (not in Baby's spot, though) spend a while carefully adding his information to the database with a placeholder for a name since you don't even want to try to guess what it might have been originally or come up with a new one now, and set a reminder to clean the wounds on your wrist and change the bandaging. (Yes, that is necessary—you can and will forget that you need to take care of that even if it hurts later. Which it will.) 

Through all of that, no one comes in. It's just you, Cardtrick, and Baby, who keeps poking his head into whatever room you're working in. He whines to get your attention if you don't notice him immediately; you know you're going to have an _awful_ time finding him a trainer who'll be able to deal with his fear of abandonment. 

Well...or you can just keep him as a permanent part of the clinic. That's allowed, of course, even if you've only added Cardtrick to the permanent residents so far. Damn, but that's odd to think about. 

When you were younger, you picked up extra money watching and training other people's pokemon. You guess you had your starter—a Turtwig that evolved to Torterra in little enough time that your sister accused you of "cheating," whatever that's supposed to mean—longer than Cardtrick's been with you, but...it doesn't feel like that. You never really bonded with him like you have with her—sure, you cared about him, you gave him the attention that every pokemon needs to be happy, not even the most exacting professor could find anything wrong or lacking in your care of any pokemon you've ever had...but it didn't hurt to let him go, when you found someone who was a better fit for him. Hell, you don't think you ever gave him a nickname beyond _Turtwig._

Then again, you guess you didn't name Cardtrick either. One of her previous owners did that, and despite the inadequacy or simple cruelty that you know they so often treated her with, she's always seemed satisfied with the name.

Hm. You need to remember to ask Wren if she still is happy enough with it, though. They'll know—it didn't take you long to notice that they always know what pokemon are thinking, even when anyone else couldn't even try to guess. When _you_ can't guess, and you're both pretty damn perceptive and, as a professor rather than an intern, much more trained to read body language. 

Wren has a real talent, though—an extraordinarily useful one. Hey, you can just text them to ask when they'll be by again _now_ , rather than making a note to do it later. You're halfway through the act of hitting send when Baby barks—a deep, full-throated _horf_ that's repeated twice more, then followed by a series of soft thumps. 

Since there's no human cry of surprise or fear, you're pretty sure you know exactly who it is. Cardtrick leaps from the top of the filing cabinet to cling to your shoulder as you head for the hall, a nearly inaudible trill vibrating through her contact with you. 

Sure enough, when you come into the waiting room Baby's having the old scars around his neck scratched by his absolute favorite person—Erin, the mail carrier who brought him to you in the first place. She smiles up at you, but takes another minute to finish working over Baby's throat, smothering a laugh as he tries to wag his tail so hard that his butt sways and thumps against the wall again. 

"I think he looks forward to the mail as much as I do, you know," you tell Erin as she straightens up and Baby retreats back behind you, nudging the backs of your legs with his nose to let you know that he's there. 

"Aw, he knows he's my favorite stop too." Erin makes a kissy face at the Houndoom, flipping a dark brown curl out of her face before she digs in the bag slung over her shoulder. "There _is_ actually some mail for you today, Mesquite; I left the junk out in the box, but I know you like personal and business stuff in here." 

That's definitely better than the other possible reason for her to come in—Erin adopted a Shinx with behaviour issues and nerve damage in his front paws a few months ago, and she's already had to bring him in a few times for medical attention. You thank her as you take the handful of envelopes she offers you, stepping out of the way so Baby won't take you down in his excitement to walk her to the door. 

Hm. There's a letter from Allayah—dear gods you love her, it's almost certainly another love note even though you've promised you'll be taking another trip to see her this weeked. Three letters from trainers who've adopted pokemon in the past and still send you letters to let you know how they're doing, nice. And...

What? 

The bell over the door chimes as Erin leaves. You barely notice it. What you're still holding, after you lay the first four letters carefully on the reception desk, is neither a single letter nor a flat package as you'd assumed it was by the feel of it. No, it's a sheaf of letters tied together with rough packing twine; you pull at the string until the knot either lets go or just breaks, fumbling through them to confirm what you've already guessed. 

You sent all of these. They all have your neat letter-addressing handwriting across the front, each addressed to Oak; every one's had three more words scrawled across the address you so carefully wrote out, in red ink and a hand that's too comfortably uneven to be yours. 

_Return to Sender._

Only one's been opened, the first one you sent. It's been resealed with clear tape; you rip the envelope trying to peel it off. All that's inside is the polite letter you sent that first week, not even asking about anything but the _possibility_ of your testing the breeding-by-proxy techniques you've developed on one of the rarer pokemon that you know he's had a chance to study. There's nothing else—no added letter to explain, nothing written on the note itself. 

Not that you need an explanation for why he doesn't want to give you even the smallest bit of his time. You don't deserve it. 

You want to tear the other envelopes open—be _sure_ that he hasn't opened and resealed one of them somehow, put something in it for you to find, played some kind of useless joke or cruel test on you for reasons that you can't understand or even imagine. But no, there's no point to your doing that—the reality's worse. The reality is that he decided, weeks ago, _months_ ago, that he wasn't even going to bother doing anything other than the bare minimum of ignoring you. That you weren't worth the attention, that you weren't good enough, that—

Cardtrick's teeth probably don't draw blood as she nips the side of your hand, but it's still startling. The little pain's just enough to make you realize that the letters are scattered under your feet where you've dropped them to free up your hands so you can reach up to start tugging at your own hair; without her intervention, you might have just kept pulling and pacing over the letters strewn across the floor until a loud enough alarm went off on your tablet or someone else came in. 

Even with the intervention, you still want to keep doing it. It will hurt and you will fuck up your hair badly enough that it'll take Allayah hours to sort out the tangles, trim the places where you've actually torn patches of hair out entirely; you _know_ that, and it's still not enough to make you want to stop. You want to keep doing it. 

But. Cardtrick's still on your shoulder, licking at where she bit you, and that sensation is just enough to ground yourself on well enough that you can keep yourself from doing anything worse than twist your fingers into the loose hair around the bun on the other side. You can feel the hairpins you use to keep in in place, hear the sick and shaky sounds of your own uneven breathing, see the letters under your feet with _Return to Sender_ glaring up at you like an accusation, like an confirmation of what you should have known before you even started trying—

The sign in the door flips from _OPEN_ to _CLOSED_ as you turn and nearly bolt for the private room where you left your tablet. It's a reassuring sign that Cardtrick's still at least a little in control of the situation, even when you can't be.

* * *

Allayah answers your videocall halfway through the second repetition of the little jingle that serves as the digital version of a ringtone; she's smiling, pleased that you decided to start this earlier than expected. That smile disappears almost instantly when the video finishes loading and she sees your face, though. 

" _Mesquite? What happened?_ " 

That—no. You can't explain, not yet. Cardtrick butts her head against your right hand as you shake your head, reminding you that you need to loosen the grip you have on your hair with your left. You can't talk. You can't even look at her. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ —this is why he wouldn't answer, this is why you're a failure, not even a real professor—

" _Okay, I know. You can't always talk when this happens, I'm sorry._ " There's the flicker of movement in your peripheral vision; you glance at the screen, see Allayah settling more comfortably in her desk chair, and look down again. " _Hi, Cardtrick. You got them for me, right?_ " 

From the way she shifts under your hand, you know your little Abra's just nodded—another mannerism she's picked up through long association with humans. She _does_ have you, you know, and Allayah's right there—they both believe in you, they're more present and immediate than that bastad could ever be, even if it doesn't feel that way right now. They're here, Baby's here at your feet, and you need to breathe and explain what's set you off this time. 

Easier said than done, of course. It's another few minutes of your sitting in near-silence and Allayah speaking to you or to Cardtrick before the knot in your chest loosens enough for you to try to speak. Even then the words come out soft and halting, enough so that you worry that the mic on your tablet won't pick it up. 

"Oak, he—shit." Breathe. "He. He sent my letters back." 

" _Oh, Mesquite._ " You still can't bring yourself to look up, but from Allayah's tone you can visualize the dismay on her face. " _Did he say why?_ " 

"I—I don't. I don't think he...even read them." Because you're not worth the time. Because you're not _real._ "Only—he only opened the first one. The first one I sent." 

" _You've been sending them for almost a year and he just sent them all back without reading them?_ " 

Her tone doesn't carry blame, but something catches in your throat anyway; Cardtrick's claws dig into your shoulder as you push past her to get a grip on your hair with your so-far-free right hand. That hurts when you tighten your grip, of course, but it's...better. It's better. "I don't know why, I—I don't _know_ , Allayah!" 

Baby whines. He's already flat on his belly, but when you look down at him he lowers his head to the floor as well, almost crawling a little closer. All right, you're not being fair to him; Cardtrick hops from your shoulder to the desk as you slide off your chair to join him on the floor, levitating your tablet so Alllayah won't lose sight of you. 

You lose sight of her for a moment, though, as Baby rearranges himself to sit beside you in a guard position and you press your face into the short, prickly fur of his neck. Wrapping an arm around him means that you have to let go of your own hair; that's definitely a good thing. 

Allayah waits for you to get settled before she says anything else, looking over her shoulder and saying something that the mic doesn't pick up to her boyfriend Daniel as he steps into the doorway for a moment and retreats again. " _It's not your fault, babe—do I need to come out there and get you? You know I can._ " 

"That's—no. No." It's worse in person—you don't like physical comfort most of the time, not from humans. Baby and Cardtrick are a different story. 

" _Okay. Do you know what you need to do?_ " 

Now, see, what she's actually asking is whether you're capable of finishing today's tasks unprompted, or if she needs to walk you through the process of remembering how to get things back on track. That's not what train of thought the question starts you on, though. 

"I'm going to go fuck his shit up." 

She just stares at you for a moment, then reaches up to pinch at the bridge of her nose, dark eyes closing for a moment. " _Mesquite—_ " 

"I know, it's...it's not—he can't mark me return to sender, okay, if I go there in person you know he'd _have_ to listen to me—" 

" _Baby, I'm not trying to talk you out of it._ " The Houndoom you're leaning against whines inquisitively at the sound of his name. " _Tell me how you're going to get there._ " 

Okay. You can do that. "I can't just close the clinic—it'll take too long to get there and back." 

" _Right. So you'll have to find someone to cover first._ " 

"I texted Wren before Erin brought the mail; they'll answer sooner or later." If their schedule doesn't bring them here within the next week or so, you'll message one of the professors who _aren't_ assholes and see if they can lend you a few interns or students who can use the experience. You should probably do that anyway, actually. "I can get someone in here." 

" _All right. That means you're not leaving_ now. _You know you're going to need to plan out the actual trip before you leave, right?_ " 

"Yeah. No trains." Biking. You'll be biking most of the way. You can check the route Cardtrick was marking out on the map for you, but... "...I can't do it right now." 

" _I know. You're tired, huh?_ " 

It's an obvious question; you know she can see that you are. Still, you nod anyway. 

" _Want to hear about those pokemon you brought us last time you visited?_ " 

"Please." The ones she's talking about are a Leafeon and Glaceon, the product of an extremely rare double hatch from the same egg; you'd needed to be sure they'd be kept together, and Allayah and Daniel were the perfect way to do that. "Cardtrick—put that in the chair, come here." 

She leaps into your lap the moment you extend the invitation. As soon as the tablet's safely settled, Allayah starts talking; you lean against Baby, run your fingers through Cardtrick's fur, and concentrate on her voice as your internal alert level slowly begins to fall again.


	7. Chapter 7

In the end, you fall asleep on the floor. You wake the next morning with a blanket over you, the thin pallet from the closet under you, and a pillow halfway under your head. Cardtrick's doing, of course; she's curled up against the back of your neck when you wake up, shifting and grabbing at loose blue strands of your hair when you reach over your shoulder to touch her. Sweet girl; she even took your hair down so you wouldn't wake up with a headache, didn't she? 

That does mean you need to spend extra time brushing the tangles out, though. You leave the pallet down for the moment—Baby and Cardtrick can keep enjoying it while you do necessary human things—and find a brush in the drawer. Technically it's meant for pokemon with mid-length fur, but hey, you don't really mind sharing and you don't think they do either. The hairpins from yesterday are gone who knows where, but you keep a stash of those in a desk drawer in case of emergency. The stash of granola bars, fruit, and packets of drink mix in another drawer is for a different kind of emergency; raiding that means you get a nutritionally satisfactory breakfast, even if you do have to pause and pick up your tablet to add a note to replace what you've taken. 

Hm. Maybe you should just diversify the snack drawer, actually. There's a microwave and a hot plate in the side room; you could theoretically stock pancake mix, soup mix, maybe some canned food and instant ramen, and not feel quite so guilty about the days when you end up not actually going home or leaving the clinic for meals. 

You make a note of _that_ on your list as well, then get up from your desk to track down meals for the pokemon. They're still sleeping, of course—Cardtrick's nestled between Baby's forelegs, seeming even more tiny next to him than she usually does—but you know they'll rouse when they hear kibble in the bowls, and of course you're right. 

After you've fed them and put away the bedding off the floor, you find yourself reaching for the notebook with your latest letter to Oak. Hell, more than just reaching for it—you've actually got the pen in hand, a few words added to the page before the memory of the letters scattered across the floor hits you and you freeze up, waiting for the almost physical pain you felt before to hit. 

It doesn't, thankfully. The cold anger that you feel instead is nearly a relief, even if you know you need to stop and get it under control; you inhale, hold it for a moment, let it out slowly, and start carefully ripping the pages out of the notebook. 

The sound is stupidly comforting. You end up going through half the notebook before you remember oh, yeah—there's still work to be done so you can open the clinic in a little bit. 

One of those things is checking the messages on your tablet. You leave that until you've dealt with everything you should have done last night; thankfully, you've streamlined daily maintenance tasks well enough that the process doesn't take much time or effort. Cardtrick's already tidied up the waiting room by the time you make it in there; the letters are gone. You don't feel like asking her what she did with them. It's...helpful. Even if you think you've managed to move past the first horrible emotions from yesterday, you don't really want to have to look at what triggered them in the first place again. This way, it feels safe to settle behind the reception desk with your tablet to check your texts. 

There's a few from Allayah, of course. You text her back with a reassurance that yes, you're still alive and back to your own relative mental baseline. A good dozen alarms you set to remind yourself of one thing or another; those you have to take a few minutes to read and either delete or reschedule. 

Damn. You were supposed to take a shower last night...oh, well. It's fine. It's _fine_. You are not allowed to get angry at yourself over that. Just reschedule the alarm and finish the task you were working on. 

Texts. Right. 

Wren says they can work this weekend. if you need them. You tell them that yes, you definitely will, and send a message to Pine that you'll take at least one of her higher-level students off her hands for a bit. You're sure she'll have no problem sending someone over; Pine runs what's basically a teaching center, and she's always ready to jump at the chance for any of her pupils to get some practical experience, even if it's at as small a facility as this one. Whoever she sends over should be able to handle any actual medical emergencies that arise; Wren can take care of the rest. 

Cardtrick climbs up into your lap as you finish that bit of business; you lay your tablet aside and scoop her up to cuddle her small, warm weight against your chest. Even though it's not how you usually show affection, she's happy with it; you can feel her purring almost soundlessly as she curls around your hands. 

Hm. "Are you worried I wouldn't take you with me?" 

She uncurls just enough to blink at you. It's funny, how much emotion you can read from her—she definitely wants you to know that you just asked a stupid question. What _else_ would you do? You can't leave her—she wouldn't stay unless you locked her in a pokeball, and you wouldn't do that, not with how much she hates being in one for any length of time. She's in your first slot for good, and you both know it. 

The rest are the ones you're a bit hazy on, honestly. You think you'll bring Baby—he could use more socialization, and leaving him here with Wren's Houndoom isn't a very good idea at all. Sure, he wouldn't start a fight (or even participate in one unless he was forced to—but it'd still be stressful for everyone concerned. Applesauce, the Starraptor who came with the clinic, is probably going to be the third pokemon you bring—you'll need a quicker and easier way to get home once you've finished your business, and Fly is the only useful move he actually knows. He's always been more of a therapy pokemon than anything else. 

That's three, and you...don't really want to choose any more? Sure, you're only at half capacity, but it's not like you're not already well enough equipped for any unavoidable battles you might encounter. What with the Repels and Cleanse Tag that you intend to bring along, you don't think there'll be many of those—whatever the average level of wild pokemon between here and there, you're sure that your team's above it. 

The alarm on your tablet beeps. Cardtrick's ears perk up, and she looks over at the door; you follow her gaze in time to see the sign flip over. 

"Thank you," you tell her, even though you're fairly sure that her motivation was mostly driven by her desire to keep getting attention. Hey, you might as well give her the benefit of the doubt and be polite. 

And yes, you might as well keep petting her, you decide as you pick up your notebook again, turning pages until you're a few past the space where you've ripped some out and picking up a pen to start writing down what else you'll need to remember. It's good for both of you.

* * *

By the time the bell over the door rings, you've moved from making your list to just doodling aimless, comfortingly repetitive patterns. The noise does what it's meant to; you're looking up before you really register the sound, dropping the notebook on the desk s you smile at the visitor—a pale girl in a sheer, long-sleeved black shirt, leggings too dark to tell the color, and a wide-brimmed hat that she removes to show dark hair cut so short that you wonder if she just shaves it. 

Well, she's either a goth, a medium, or both. The uncertain look she gives Cardtrick makes you think it's the second—trainers who deal mainly in Ghost and Dark pokemon tend to get a bit worried when they see you with a pokemon who's weak to their specialities. You're not sure why—do they think that'll bias you against them? That's ridiculous, of course, but you guess you'd understand it. 

When the girl stalls just inside the door, you shift to retrieve a form from the stack. "Hi, how can I help you?" 

"You're Professor Mesquite, right?" Yeah, she's a medium. Something in the way she speaks makes it obvious—her voice is soft, like she knows she'll be overheard, like she doesn't want to startle anything. Something in how her eyes don't quite focus, how she tracks things you can't even sense. 

You still cringe a bit when she calls you that. "Just Mesquite, please." 

"Oh. He didn't tell me that." She shrugs a bit, laying her hat on a chair in favor of having both hands free to fidget with the pokeball she's holding. To your mild surprise, it's just the standard red and white version, not a Dark Ball. Interesting. "He said you're good at finding pokemon for...specific needs?" 

Ah. Well, that puts you back on familiar ground at least. "That's actually one of my specialities, Miss..." 

"Leila." She smiles for a second—it's surprisingly warm. "Just Leila. Do I need to fill something out?" 

"Oh." You are not doing a great job of fulfilling your duties today, now are you? Cardtrick nudges your hand away from the form, sending it floating over the counter for Leila to take out of the air. "We can discuss what you're here for while you're filling it out, if you want—" 

"Please. Can I take my pokemon out while we're talking, though? I promise they won't cause any trouble." 

"Of course. Here, come with me." As you get to your feet and come around the desk to lead her to the private room, you catch the flash of a pokemon being released out of the corner of your eyes. Well, at least you weren't looking directly at it. 

Baby's not in the hall or the room itself, which is a bit of a relief—Dark-type pokemon can get aggressive towards others with the same typing, and he gets a bit unpredictable if he's attacked. If you had to guess you'd say he's gone out into the yard; no need to worry about it right now. Right now, you motion Leila to take her seat, and sit down on the other side of the desk to start getting the database open. 

Once you've got that done, you look up at her. 

Hm. The pokemon in her lap isn't a Misdrevious or Shuppet like you sort of expected, not even a Sableye or Absol. No, Leila's running her hands over an extremely calm Klink, carefully turning the interlocking gears of its body with a tiny clicking sound. 

"I don't think I've seen one of those in a while." 

"My cousin caught them for me." Leila shrugs, a small and measured movement. "It's—I need to be able to _touch_ things, move them, fidget enough to remember what I'm doing, you know?" 

"That makes sense, yes." There's a pen on the desk by your hand; you snag it and scribble out a note to yourself on the nearest piece of paper—you should look into getting a Klink or Klank to breed. You know a few trainers who'd be more than relieved to find a pokemon who'll cooperate with acting as a stim tool, even if you'd have to breed them with natures in mind. "So, are you here about the specifics of caring for this type of pokemon, or...?" 

"Oh. Right." Leila looks around for something to use to fill out the form in her lap, taking the pen when you hold it out to her. "I actually did research when I got them—it's been a few years. I'm actually looking to...adopt?" 

"We can help you with that." Adoptions are a key part of keeping the clinic operational; above and beyond the sliding-scale fee involved, there's a _lot_ of pokemon who come into your possession. "Did you have something in mind?" 

"Something softer than Clockwork." Her expression doesn't shift from the look of calm neutrality she's worn almost since she walked into the clinic, but you notice that while she's filling out the form with her right hand, her left's still worrying at the pokemon in her lap. If anything, the clicking's faster now. "I don't really care what type, or even species really—I can already sweep most encounters. The temperament, though—I need something that'll let me pet it, rub at it—" 

"Another pokemon for tactile stimulation?" 

"Yes, exactly! I love Clockwork, but sometimes..." Leila makes a face, holding out her left hand to let you get a look at a variety of fading reddish scars across her palms and fingertips. "I mean. Sometimes it's just not a good idea for me to touch anything that's hard enough to cut me." 

"That makes sense." Give me a minute to see what I have..." Despite what she says, it's not just temperment that's important. Leila needs something small enough to be taken out of its pokeball wherever she might be—you're guessing that's why she hasn't evolved her Clockwork—but also hardy enough to take the rougher repetitive motions that would explain the cuts on her hands. Preferably, you'd like to find a pokemon with a thick enough hide to enjoy the attention, or just not notice it at all. 

The only example you can think of off the top of your head is a Banette. Technically a Shuppet would be just as numb to most physical manipulation, but you're pretty sure that they wouldn't provide the kind of tactile stimulation you're looking for here. Thankfully, you are not relying fully on your own ability to recall what you have in stock, and the database spits you out some more possibilities after a few seconds. 

Hm. _Hm._ "Have you ever seen a Spinda before?" When she shakes her head, you pull up the image attached to the file you've selected on your tablet, sliding it across the table. "They're native to very specific areas and most trainers aren't interested in using them for battling or companions, so they're not very well known. They _do_ tend to have very thick skin, though." 

"She's so cute," Leila murmurs, tilting the tablet to let her Klink see. "All those spots." 

"They're used for identification. Almost like a fingerprint." According to the file, the Spinda's pokeball should be in the top drawer of your filing cabinet, despite the fact that you acquired her nearly a year ago and haven't had any reason to bring her out before now. You should really do a full organization and refile of your stored pokeballs one of these days. Maybe you can get a couple interns and Allayah down here for help at some point...but for now, you just feel around in the drawer until your fingers find the telltale markings of a Great Ball, pull it out and step away from the wall so you can crack it open. 

Cardtrick squeals in what you suspect is disapproval as you close your eyes against the flash. You probably should have picked her up first. When you open your eyes again, your Abra is perched on the very edge of the desk, giving you a look that suggests she's very seriously considering throwing herself across the offending distance even with the spotted pokemon wobbling in the middle of the floor between the two of you. 

"Cardtrick," you warn her, " _don't._ " 

She opens her eyes very wide, the equivalent of a human rolling theirs. Yes, you know she knows better than to startle another pokemon, but that doesn't necessarily mean she won't do it; you think the warning was necessary. 

Leila's slid out of her chair, letting her Klink slip out of her hands to float just behind her as she kneels on the floor and holds out a hand to the Spinda. Even kneeling, she's taller than the pokemon is—this one's unusually small for the breed—but the Spinda doesn't seem to be at all wary. As soon as Leila extends the wordless greeting, she coos, takes one almost dancing step forward, and reaches up to cling to Leila's arm with both spotted forepaws. 

After a moment Leila laughs, reaching over with the hand that doesn't have a pokemon attached to rub at the short, fine fur between the Spinda's ears. "All right, I definitely want her." 

You have to smile at the coo that gets. "Great—I'll get you the paperwork."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Don't forget to check out Mesquite's tumblr!](https://askprofessormesquite.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mesquite now has their own tumblr blog!](https://askprofessormesquite.tumblr.com) Requests for specific things you'd like to see here or questions for them are welcome!

Cardtrick's clingy for a good half an hour after Leila leaves with her new Spinda. She probably would have stretched that period out even longer...but when she springs from your shoulder to the desk to the floor, golden fur puffing out as she hisses at Baby for the crime of poking his head into the room to check on you, you decide that enough is enough. 

"No!" And she ignores you anyway, one paw coming up to smack Baby's muzzle as he lowers his head to sniff at her in curiosity and concern. He yelps even though the blow didn't quite connect; you've come around the desk and grabbed Cardtrick by the scruff of the neck before she can press her obvious advantage, lifting her off the floor as she wiggles and tries to twist free. 

Baby _instantly_ retreats to the corner by the door, whining in distress; he's going to need some reassurance, but you need to deal with Cardtrick first. " _No_ ," you tell her again, giving her a gentle shake when she keeps squirming. Holding her whole weight in one hand is always surprisingly difficult, but you think you can handle it for another couple minutes. "He didn't do anything to you. You know better than that." 

She growls, very quietly. You don't know if it's directed at you or at the Houndroom still having a little breakdown in the corner, but it doesn't really matter—this behavior is uncalled for, and she knows it. You shift your grip, carrying her across the hall to the storage room. 

There's a lot of things she could break in here, you guess. Oh, well, she's never been vindictive like that before, it should be fine. You deposit Cardtrick on the counter and step back to the door. 

"Thirty minutes," you tell her. She just huffs and turns away from you, tail flicking back and forth; you feel the psychic power building just in time to step back and _not_ have the door hit you in the face as it slams shut. 

Okay then. Time to go check on Baby. That's easier said than done, of course; he's moved since you left the room, but just from the corner by the door to somewhere with a bit more cover: under your desk. Not great, since he's more than large enough to tip the whole thing over if he gets startled badly enough. You guess you're just going to have to make sure that he doesn't _get_ that startled. 

"It's okay, Baby." Tone is more important than words; he might not understand as many words as Cardtrick does, but he understands _how_ you say it. You keep your voice low and reassuring as you kneel down on the floor in front of him. "She's just having some issues; that's why she's in time-out and you're not. You didn't do anything wrong, I promise. No one's angry at you here. You're okay. It's okay." 

By this time, Baby's stopped whining. When you pause, he makes a different sound—more of a whimper? There's definitely more vocal chords involved than there were in the quiet, high-pitched whines—and shuffles forward to bump his muzzle against your fingers. 

"I know, I know." You shift enough that you can reach to scratch between his horns. "I got you, big boy. Sweet boy. You need to come out from under the desk in a minute, you know." 

He just grumbles deep in his chest and tilts his head towards your hand. Okay, fine, he does have a point—you've got plenty of time to spend a little while petting him first.

* * *

Cardtrick lets herself out around half an hour later, as you expected her to do. By the time she sidles into the waiting room, you've coaxed Baby out from under the desk to join you in there; he gives her a wary look and holds very, very still as she pads across the room to him. 

You lay your pen down to watch them, just in case, but all she does is stretch up to rub her head against the bottom of his chin. It's a gesture of apology, you think; after a moment Baby seems to realize that too, wagging his stump of a tail and giving Cardtrick's head a quick lick. 

Well, he tries to do that, at least. She teleports to the desk in front of you before his tongue can connect; you guess that Houndoom drool is one of the few things she considers to be enough of an irritation to flee from like that. 

"You silly thing." She butts her head against your hand, the exact same mannerism she used on Baby a moment ago. You shake your head and stroke along her back. 

Her fur's softer than any other Abra you've ever handled, you think. Maybe softer than any other _pokemon_. The act of running your hand across the familiar texture...well, you didn't really realize just how stressed you are until you started petting her, just put it that way. Soft, with the underlying firmness of her muscles as she arches against your hand—she purrs when you reverse the stroke to ruffle the fur up against the grain. It's another layer of calming tactile sensation that's...hm. 

Weren't you supposed to be doing something? 

Probably, yes...but it can wait. It'll _have_ to wait, actually; before you can do more than begin to think about what task you're supposed to be switching back to (let alone start the process of going back to it) the bell over the door rings. On your lap, Cardtrick perks up, shifting her weight to her hind legs to put her front paws on the desk so she can peek over it. 

The kid at the door—a little boy, maybe nine or ten years old with curly hair that's got a few leaves stuck in it and the scrapes and scuffs that most new trainers end up with—stops to look right at her for a moment, then giggles. "You look like my mom's Audino," he informs Cardtrick, letting go of the door so it'll swing shut behind him. "You're a professor, right?" 

Well, you're going to assume that the second part was meant to be aimed at you. "I am; my name's Mesquite." 

"Mine's Kale." Kale glances around curiously for a second, then comes up to the desk. You're guessing that the pokeball in his hand has something to do with today's visit...but instead of addressing that, he points at Cardtrick with his free hand. "Can I pet him?" 

"Cardtrick's a _her_ , but you can probably pet her. Cardtrick?" She's been watching Kale attentively since he opened the door; when you say her name, she looks up at you, then hops up onto the desk to submit to the favorable ordeal of being thoroughly petted. "Did you come here for some help with your pokemon, Kale?" 

"Oh, yeah." He doesn't actually stop petting Cardtrick, just sets his pokeball carefully on the desk, roughly halfway between himself and you. "My dad took me to the professor in the town where he lives—uh, Lilac?" 

"I know Lilac." She's actually pretty nice, even if she's a bit skeptical of your own methods. Then again, you don't think there's any professor who isn't at least a little bit confused about how careful you are with everything. "Were you there to get your starter, then?" 

"Yeah, she gave me a Pikachu." Kale makes a face, scowling at the ball on the desk. "He doesn't like me." 

"Ah." Ouch. This isn't the first time someone's come to you with this specific problem—it's rare-ish, but sometimes pokemon just refuse to bond with their trainers. Usually it's got something to do with conflict between how the pokemon was originally trained and the trainer's personal style, but that really shouldn't be a problem with a starter. "Is it okay if I take a look at his stats?" 

Kale nods, still petting Cardtrick. "Just maybe don't take him out of his ball. He bites." 

"Thank you for the warning." You don't _have_ to get him out for this, thankfully. You spend a minute struggling to remember how to hook up the scanner to your tablet; once you get it, you set the Pikachu's pokeball in it and wait for the readout to load. 

Hm. Level eighteen; that's pretty impressive. Kale's certainly been making an effort with this little guy, at least. His nature's listed as stubborn, which can't exactly be making this easy. Dammit, are you _really_ the only one who checks these things before blithely handing out starters? You would have never given this Pikachu to a new trainer in the first place. 

"Do I have to keep him?" Kale asks. "Mom says I should just catch another pokemon and make friends with them instead, but Sparky won't stop fighting long enough for me to do that." 

Interesting. Usually, pokemon don't actively prevent trainers from catching new pokemon, even if there's this obvious of a personality conflict. "You don't have to keep him. I have some other starters you can choose from—you can give me Sparky and I'll rehome him, or you can keep him and—" 

"You should take him." 

"Is your dad going to be okay with that?" Having to justify your services to irritated guardians is not exactly your favorite thing. 

But Kale nods with the kind of absolute certainty that kids are occasionally capable of. "Yeah, he wouldn't like how Sparky keeps trying to bite me. I don't wanna go see Lilac again, though." 

"Okay, then." You switch the scanner off, leaving the pokeball in it, and open the database on your tablet instead. Unlike most professors, you don't actually keep a stock of starter pokemon filed separately from the rest; instead, you've added a tag to all of the entries who're suitable for young or new trainers, making it easy to pull them up. "Alright, I have....let's see. An Eevee, a Shinx, and a Dratini, to start with. Any of those sound interesting?" 

Kale blinks. "You have a _dragon_ for a starter?" 

"I mean, she's had an owner before." You received this specific Dratini from a collector who only wanted to get the entry in his pokedex filled. Breeding a new one was a stupid move, in your opinion; he could have caught a wild one and released it again, or even borrowed one from another trainer. Eh, at least he didn't release this one back into an unfamiliar area. "Do you want to see her?" 

He thinks about that for a moment, then shakes his head. "No thanks; I like Electric types better. That's what Shinx is, right?" 

"You know your typings, good job." You tap at your tablet's screen, applying that filter to the database as well; even if he doesn't get along with the Shinx, you have a good dozen or so backup options. "Cardtrick, do you want to take him out to the yard for me? I'll be out in a minute with the pokeball." 

As soon as you finish talking, she hops down from the desk and trots towards the hall. Once you're sure that Kale's going to follow, you head for the storage room to retrieve the pokemon you'll need.


	9. Chapter 9

Kale leaves about half an hour later, with the Shinx. Somehow, you find yourself not all that surprised that he immediately named that one Sparky too—kids are just like that sometimes. Eh, both the pokemon and the boy seem happy with it, so you're not even going to worry right now. 

Not about that, at least. The fact that you find the pokeball that should be safely tucked away in the scanner open on the reception desk when you come back from filing Kale's adoption form, though? That you do worry about, more or less immediately. Cardtrick's perched at the top of the rack of booklets and handouts, which is _also_ a bit concerning, but the pokeball is the main thing and the pikachu growling and throwing off little bolts of lightning in the middle of the floor just sort of...puts the icing on the cake, it really does. 

"Sparky." Hm. Is it worth the minor shock that you're going to get if you grab him? Maybe wait to make that decision, since all he's doing is growling and chewing on his own tail. "Hey, sweetheart—you want a treat?" 

That gets a very noticeable surge of sparks—thank Arceus that he's not too near any outlets. He lets go of his tail and uncurls, though, ears swiveling towards Cardtrick as she resettles herself in her nest of flyers. Those bright little eyes stay fixed on you as you dig in your pockets, fail to find anything rodent-types are supposed to eat, and step across to the desk so you can get to your stash there. 

The correct canister slides out from its little cubby as you reach for it; a moment later, Cardtrick pops into existence on your shoulder. She doesn't wait for you to brush her off, though—you know she's more than smart enough to understand that you don't want her on you when you're greeting a new and possible dangerous pokemon, and she proves it by leaping down to keep an eye on you from the edge of the desk as you circle around it again and sit down on the floor. 

"Here." There's four treats in your hand; the first one you just toss across the few feet separating you and Sparky, aiming to slide it across the floor to stop in front of him. You wait a moment for him to make up his mind to pounce on it before you shift your weight to a position where your legs _aren't_ going to fall asleep in under four minutes. 

By the time you've got that properly sorted, Sparky's finished the first treat and sat up on his hind legs, sniffing the air for the scent of the other treats in your hand. You toss the second one towards him in an easy arc; he has plenty of time to catch, dodge, or flinch away. 

The fact that he goes for the first option, leaping up to snatch the airborne treat and crunching it down in three neat bites, is reassuring. No one's ever thrown anything at him in anger or frustration; one less aspect of rehabilitation that you need to worry about. 

Now he's looking expectantly at you for his next treat, and you still have two left in your hand. It's kind of a stupid chance to take when you're already got a nice little injury, but you still swap one of the treats to your left hand and hold it out palm-up. Might as well see if he'll take it from you. 

He does, with barely even a pause—Sparky grabs at your fingers with both little forepaws, sending a faint tingle through your hand as he completes a circuit. He's in a very good position to bite right now, of course; thankfully, he just goes after the treat instead. This one he eats slower, sitting back and blinking at you as he takes little bites out of it. 

"You like those, huh?" You don't really expect an answer, of course, but you get one anyway in the form of a drawn-out chitter. Hm. "Someone's talkative." 

And friendly, at least to you—Sparky swallows the last morsel and drops back to all fours, climbing into your lap and trying to burrow under your jacket. "No, we're not doing that—here, sweetheart, take this." Giving him the last treat is a small distraction, but it's still a good enough one that he lets you pick him up and carry him over to the desk. Cardtrick sniffs at him as you set him down on the most clear space; that gets a growl mumbled around the treat in his mouth, which cuts off when she bops him on the nose with one forepaw. You know she's just reminding him who's older and in charge here, not starting a fight, but there's always the off chance it'll escalate. If it does, she's probably going to zap both of them out to the yard and finish it there. Not like there's a lot to damage other than each other, and there's no way she'd let _that_ happen, after all. 

It doesn't even come close to that, anyway. Sparky gives Cardtrick a wide-eyed look of offense, spins to almost-not-quite smack her in the face with his tail—she's seen that move before, and knows to leap back too quick to let it connect—and settles down to start chewing on his tail again. 

You shake your head and check the clock, making a note of the time and picking up your tablet again.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, you've made at least a little progress in properly filling out database files for the clinic's newer acquisitions—you're always a week or so behind on that and that's okay; the student or students that Pine sends you will probably get you caught all the way up while you're gone—and Sparky is _still_ chewing, despite the fact that Cardtrick left to dig through one of the baskets you keep out for visitors and found a rodent chew toy to bring him. 

Hm. 

This isn't chewing for the sake of chewing, or to wear his teeth down—he'd be gnawing on the wood of the desk itself if that was the case, or at least have accepted the chew toy when Cardtricked pushed it across the desk to him. The obvious explanation is that he has some kind of issue with his tail that makes him need to scratch there...and you don't think he's going to cooperate with an exam right now. 

But you do need to make him stop chewing now. He's already chewed the fur there shorter than the rest of his tail; no need to find out if he'll just keep on chewing once he reaches his skin. "Cardtrick, can you get me an e-collar?" 

She sneezes—you've had to put the cone of shame on her a few times before, an ordeal that's left her _thoroughly_ disgusted with the world in general each time—and leaps down from the counter to go fetch what you've asked for. 

Sparky lets go of his tail and looks up at you curiously. He chitters when you hold a hand out, sniffing your fingers before pressing his head into your palm. 

"You don't seem like such a terror, you know." He's calmer than before—the current running from his body to yours is still there, as long as he's alive it'll be there, but now it's just barely a prickle against your hand. "You're still not going to be anyone's starter—I'm going to have to talk to Lilac about her screening—but it'll be easy to get you rehomed. Everyone likes pikachus..." 

Sparky squeaks, maybe in agreement. The petting's getting to him—he settles down on the desk in front of you, beady dark eyes blinking slowly, and doesn't move at all even as Cardtrick bumps against your leg to let you know she's got what you asked for. Maybe because you keep your movements slow and steady and one hand on his head even as you lean down to take the collar from her, he carries on not moving even as you snap it into place around his neck. 

With that done, you move your tablet off the desk, setting it on top of the cabinet behind you. Just in case. 

When you turn back to him, Sparky's trying to figure out how to get at his tail again. He can't, of course—the entire point of the e-collar is to prevent that sort of thing—but it's going to take him a couple minutes to work that out. Cardtrick climbs up to your shoulder to watch him, her head tilting at each increasingly-frustrated squeak or growl. She chirps in alarm as Sparky backs dangerously close to the edge of the desk; it occurs to you that you probably should have moved him to the floor _just_ as he tumbles off. 

And hangs in the air halfway to the floor, still growling and twisting in irritation. "Thanks, Cardtrick," you tell her as she lowers him slowly to safety. She rubs her face against the side of your head; you reach up to pet her, grinning at the way she leans into your hand until you _know_ she'd fall if you took it away. 

You still nearly do just that when the bell over the door rings. Sparky's growls change pitch—from rough frustration to shrill startled challenge—and then stop altogether when he gets a good look at who's just stepped through the door into the waiting room. 

Wren does tend to have that effect on pokemon. They smile at the pikachu on the floor, then at you. Well, probably at Cardtrick; while you know that Wren does like you well enough, they're still more likely to be able to perform social interactions with pokemon than with humans. "Hi—I'm early. Who's this?" 

"Sparky. He might bite, be careful." He _probably_ won't bite them—most pokemon treat Wren differently than they'd treat any other human—but it's still worth it to extend the warning anyway. "Where's your Houndoom?" 

"I asked Glacie to stay outside so she wouldn’t fight with Baby." They shrug, kneeling down to hold a hand out to Sparky, a thoughtful look crossing their face as he chitters. "She wants the collar off." 

"She?" Oh. Hm. That makes sense. "Really." 

Wren nods, already scooping Sparky up so they can unclip the e-collar. Well, you guess that explains the tail-chewing—left to her own devices for long enough, she'd be able to groom the fur into something close to the naturally rounded shape of a female pikachu, rather than the angled one specific to males. It's a behaviour that's been occasionally documented in both wild and trained pikachu; you've seen it a few times yourself. 

You have opposable thumbs and can streamline the process considerably, though. "Keep her from chewing on her tail for a few minutes, would you?" When Wren nods, you get up and head for the side room. 

Shit. Where did you put it...oh, probably in the cabinet with the first-aid supplies. Yellow felt _is_ a first aid supply, after all, at least when you're dealing with Mimikyus. You find the felt, needle and thread, and the good fabric scissors; Cardtrick adds a permanent marker to the pile before you can finish gathering it all together. Good point; you'll be needing that too. 

Wren's still petting Sparky—hm. Probably not _Sparky_ , come to think of it; it may be a technically neutral name but it was chosen for a supposedly male pokemon—and listening to her squeaks and chitters. They don't even look up when you settle on the floor beside them and lay your supplies out. "Here, let me see that tail for a minute—what's her name, by the way?" 

"Oh." Wren shifts the pikachu's weight in their lap, turning her so her tail's flat on the floor where you can slide one sheet of the felt under it and trace around the end. That garners a few offended squeaks, one of which apparently contains the answer to your question. "Daisy’s a good one?" 

"Daisy?" You have two sheets of felt; on one, you trace the outline of Daisy's tail, adding the distinctive heart-shaped curve to the end rather than going straight across, and put both sheets together to cut that shape out. "That's a nice name; I'll change the metadata on her pokeball after we finish all this up." 

Daisy twists around to watch what you, letting out a trill that you think is probably a question. That suspicion is confirmed when Wren asks, "What are you doing?" 

"Well, this should work better than chewing on your tail." You're quick at sewing—even with needing to backstitch the seam to reinforce it, you still only need a few minutes before you can hold up the tail-sleeve for inspection. Daisy scrambles off Wren's lap to sniff at it; you let her satisfy herself that it's not dangerous, then nudge her to turn around so you can slip it over the end of her tail. "Handling dysphoria in species with obvious sexual dimorphism was actually a required minicourse for my major—recognizing it is a bit tricky, is all. No, don't bite at it, I still need to pin it in place." And you didn't grab the safety pins. Damn. 

Cardtrick's already scurrying for the desk, though. She returns a moment later with the glint of metal in her mouth; when you hold out your hand, she drops four pins into it. 

"Thank you," you tell her. She chirps, once, as you pin the two remaining edges together as close to Daisy's tail as you can safely get it, and tug gently on the fabric to make sure that the taper of her tail will hold the sleeve in place. 

"You're welcome," Wren translates absently. "Why not just sew it in place around her tail?" 

"Not being able to take it off for grooming can cause skin irritation and infections." You have to smile at the sight of Daisy twisting around to capture her tail in her forepaws and sniff at the new addition to it. "And felt gets dirty—you want to be able to change it so you can wash it. Does that feel better, sweetheart?" 

From the series of happy squeaks you get as an answer, you think that it really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wren belongs to my friend [Nix](https://doodlenix.tumblr.com/), and is appearing here with their permission! 
> 
> [Mesquite now has their own tumblr blog!](https://askprofessormesquite.tumblr.com) Requests for specific things you'd like to see here or questions for them are welcome!


	10. Chapter 10

Wren's first act when you officially put them in charge of the clinic is to inform you that they won't be putting Daisy back into her pokeball anytime soon. You're fine with that, especially since it means you can hand over Baby's pokeball and let them coax him into it, while you do a little data wizardry on the Pikachu's ball. As usual, you have to try a good half-dozen different backdoor hacks before you find a loophole that'll let you edit the gender marker embedded in the readable data. The name's nowhere near as tricky; for that you can just save what you've already changed, eject the ball from the program, and reopen the data file in a separate, slightly more legitimate editing program. Names are _meant_ to be more-or-less easily changed, after all, when a pokemon is about to change hands or when a trainer just decides that a different one would fit their companion better.

All in all, you take about as much time with that as Wren takes with Baby, which is honestly impressive on both ends—you're aware that you're good enough at editing pokeball data to be proud of, and they should be proud of their ability to talk pokemon into things. Especially when it's Baby...he still gets anxious about being put back in the ball. "What did you tell him?"

They shrug as they step all the way into the room. "He asked if you were giving him away, I promised him you wouldn't do that. He'd rather be with you than anywhere else, it's pretty simple?"

Ah. Shit. You hit the save key one more time just to be safe, and pick up the Dark Ball that Baby's currently residing in up from where Wren's set it, cupping it in both hands for a moment. Yes, you've been looking at rehoming possibilities for him ever since you got him and verified that he was nowhere near as aggressive as the report on him had claimed—sure, he'd badly bitten his trainer, but in your opinion the man deserved it for the specific type of fighting ring he'd been running; you spent weeks trying to rehabilitate the other canine-type pokemon that came in when the authorities dismantled his operation—but it looks like _that's_ going to be put on an indefinite and possibly permanent hiatus. You may not want any permanent pokemon (well, other than Cardtrick, and she's definitely with you by choice) but you are _not_ going to betray the poor Houndoom like that. Baby deserves better.

At this point, though, all you need to do is slip his pokeball into your pocket and toss Daisy's to Wren. "I'll have to remember that next time I have to put him in the ball, thanks. You have all the emergency contact info?"

They nod and lean down to pat Daisy's head as she rubs against their legs. "Every professor within fifty kilometers, you, your girlfriend, your girlfriend's boyfriend, fire, police, emergency teams—"

"Yeah, you got it. Just don't call Lilac." She's on your probationary shit list until you talk to her yourself and see what she thinks of Daisy. "Other than that, don't even hesitate to make whatever calls you think are necessary. It doesn't matter what kind of emergency it is, if you and the other intern aren't sure you can handle it, go ahead and ask for help. If someone tries to tell you that you shouldn't be in charge—"

"Call you." Wren smiles, bright and almost dangerous for just a second. "Call you, put it on speaker, and watch you rip them a new one in public."

"Exactly." Oh yeah, things here will be just fine while you're gone. "Plus you get to take a few shots at them once I'm done. It'll be fun, right?"

They smother a laugh with the hand that's holding Daisy's pokeball. "That's a word for it."

* * *

Going through your last pre-departure checklist and filling Wren in on the handful of things you've forgotten eats up another hour or so. Honestly, you probably don't need to be quite so thorough with them as you are—one, you've written down everything that could possibly be necessary for so whatever intern Pine sends you can have it, and two, Wren can always just ask a pokemon to fill them in on whatever you might have missed.

Hm. You wonder if they realize that ability isn't exactly standard issue for humans, come to think of it. The occasional bewildered looks you get when you ask for translations do suggest that they don't know that everyone can't do it...but eh, it's not really any of your business. They seem to have things under control, at any rate.

Currently, your business is leaving. You nestle Cardtrick's Charm Ball between Baby's and Applesauce's in the special pocket on the outside of your shoulder bag, then lay it down on the desk so you can take the pins off your lab coat and transfer them to the jacket you've had since halfway through college. Cardtrick waits patiently on the back of your chair until you've got them all situated and shrugged the jacket on; then she leaps onto your shoulder and squirms down into the gap between the pink camo collar and the nape of your neck.

Well, that _is_ exactly why you got it a few sizes too big. You grin, settle your bag firmly over your shoulder with the strap crossing your chest, and head out into the yard. Past the yard; Applesauce is big even for a Dragonite, and you have to make sure that there's plenty of room before you can fish out his pokeball and crack it open. "Come on out, Applesauce..."

He purrs at you as soon as you open your eyes, nudging gently at your shoulder with his smooth orange snout. He's a smart boy; he knows that being out of the pokeball means either a trip out or laying on the ground with kids climbing over him, and in his mind both of those are fun. Scratches and pats come first, though, and you attend to that for a minute or two before stepping back. "Ready to go see Allayah?"

Applesauce trills—a surprisingly delicate sound for a pokemon so large, almost a throwback to when he was still a Dratini—and settles down with his belly flat to the grass, tail just barely twitching as he waits for you to climb on his back.

Yep, he's definitely ready to go, and you're pretty sure he'll be even more excited about where you're going from there. You grin and clamber between his wings, zipping up your jacket as you settle safely into place and wait for him to take off.

* * *

Flying is...

Hm.

Look, you don't have to think about it once you let Applesauce know the destination. There's virtually no danger involved. The wind from his wingbeats is rhythmic and soothing and honestly a _great_ stim. All this adds up to a great way to destress...and as with most things that calm you down this well, you tend to feel guilty about it. That's to be expected, and you mostly just ignore it.

The fact that Cardtrick doesn't much like this mode of transportation is a bit more difficult to ignore; before Applesauce even stops climbing and levels out into an occasionally-broken glide, she's squirmed her way around from your back to cuddle against your stomach, trembling until you shift to hold with one hand and free up an arm to wrap around her.

Poor thing. "You know, you _could_ just teleport yourself there and skip this, sweetheart."

From the disgruntled grown you get as a response, you're going to say that she doesn't think much of that idea.

Hm, you guess that's fair.

"Just don't claw me up any more, please."

* * *

Unlike most of the pokemon you handle, Applesauce is more than happy to go back into his pokeball after he lands in the middle of the pasture behind Allayah and Eric's house. That's nice, since this isn't actually their property and you don't really like spending more time than necessary within reach of the Bouffalant who's pastured here. Sure, Cardtrick could easily get him up off the ground and incapable of trampling you if he charged...but that'd just be traumatizing all around.

(Especially to you. Even with the exposure courses you took on large pokemon husbandry, you really don't like the idea of being stepped on much.)

He stays over in the shade of one of the trees planted by the far fenceline, though. Maybe he's aware, on some level, that you do not particularly like being rushed by pokemon roughly fifteen times your size and he doesn't want to be a jerk. Pokemon are plenty intelligent enough for that, of course. Or maybe he just recognises Cardtrick as a bit out of his league. Either way, you climb over the fence with no incidents (other than dropping Cardtrick, who zaps herself to safety on the nearest post and gives you a series of disapproving looks until you drop down onto the other side and come over to collect her) and make it halfway through the front yard before Allayah yanks the door open and jumps down the front steps to nearly tackle you with a hug.

You've got your feet set properly, since you expect this from her, and the impact is _still_ nearly enough to take you down. Cardtrick squeaks and applies just a little telekinetic force to your back to keep you upright—just enough to leave you free to wrap one arm around your girlfriend's back and reach up to clear your face of her long, fluffy white hair with the other.

It's not very effective. But she knows what you're doing, and after a moment she pulls back to grin at you, letting you get the first good look at her face since you were here a few weeks ago. (Video chat only sort of counts, after all.)

"Hey." Her smile grows when you reach up to push her hair back from her face, letting your thumb brush across the patch of lighter skin around her left eye. It's shifted since you saw her last, you think; the right border's edged a hair's breadth closer to the side of her nose, contours rearranging themselves over the time that you don't see her this close. "Missed you."

Cardtrick chirps as if in agreement; Allayah snorts out a laugh. "You too, huh?"

"She loves you and you—" You get cut off when she wraps a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you down for a kiss that has you wondering if the purring you feel is you or Cardtrick. It takes you a second to regroup from that when she lets go. "Oh. You...ah, shit."

"You're _so_ cute." Allayah laughs again and slides an arm around your waist, effortlessly pickpocketing Baby's pokeball from its spot in your bag and dropping it without letting go of you. You can feel Cardtrick levitating the empty pokeball back into place as you open your eyes from the automatic need to shield yourself from the flash; Baby's already sitting back on his haunches, looking up at Allayah with an inquisitive tilt to his head. "Yeah, go on—they're in the backyard, boy, go get the Wooloos! Go get them!"

Baby's bay startles Cardtrick back down into your jacket, but that's okay. She'll come out when you take it off in the house.

* * *

Eric is nowhere to be seen, even though Allayah leads you through at least half of the rooms so you can greet all of the pokemon you've sent here. Somewhere in there you lose Cardtrick—probably in the bathroom with Marty the Golbat, who hasn't quite gotten over his agoraphobia issues yet. It's...weird, to not have her on your shoulder as Allayah pulls you into her room; you feel a little bad about your own insecurity over her letting you walk away. She's only with you of her own choice, after all, and you should be ready for the eventuality that one day she'll change her—

Allayah flicks your nose, very gently. "You've got that look on your face again," she tells you when you blink and focus on her again. "I'm _not_ breaking up with you."

"This time it was about Cardtrick, actually."

"Well, she isn't breaking up with you either. You're staying the night, right?"

"Oh, definitely. Where's Eric?"

She makes a pained face, stepping around you to flop down on the bed. Facedown, actually. _And_ she doesn't roll over when you sit down beside her...someone's having a rough day. "He's upstairs...he had to put Karma back in her pokeball."

Ouch. There's only a couple reasons Eric would need to give his near-constant Kecleon companion a break, and most of them wouldn't make Allayah feel this bad for him. So that leaves... "Is it a new alter, or are they having problems with integrating again?"

She shrugs. Well, you think she does—it's hard to tell when someone's horizontal. "I don't know, honestly—Karma was getting worn out trying to shift color fast enough to keep up with who was fronting, he put her back in the ball and holed up in the book room to see if he couldn't decompress a little—"

"It's a library."

"It's a _book room._ " Allayah rolls over to stick her tongue out at you. This mock-argument is literally older than her relationship with you. "But yeah, he didn't want to talk to me about it. I hate it when he's having this kind of hard time, you know? I can't help with with it other than texting his therapist to call him, and I know that, and he knows I know that, and I know he knows I know—"

"It's a bad time for everyone, I know." Now that she's face-up, you can lean down and kiss her forehead. You do that immediately, smooching each little pale spot separately. "Sorry I picked such a bad day."

"Shhh." Her arms come up and loop around your neck, pulling until you give in and let yourself fall to the bed beside her. "You know I'd be pissed if you skipped stopping her on the way out _and_ the way back, babe."

She really would be. "Yeah. Speaking of the way back...it might be a while? I've got a, uh. Decent trip, if I really manage to go and, you know."

"Rub Oak's face in a Litten's litter box?"

Creative. "Close enough." Assuming you don't chicken out halfway. Assuming you don't get lost and end up getting picked up by a ranger in a couple weeks. Assuming—

"Hey." Allayah shifts just a _tiny_ bit closer and licks the side of your nose.

"That's _disgusting._ You know that's disgusting, right?"

"It got you distracted."

"Yeah, well. Maybe I should keep rethinking things instead of letting you distract me..."

"Mesquite." Allayah makes a face and props herself up on one elbow to frown down at you. "You want to back out?"

"I—" Well, you probably wouldn't put it like that. But. "Maybe. Sort of."

"Sort of. Okay, why?"

Hm. Good question. The desire to inflict at least some professional humiliation if not outright harm is definitely still there, so why the hesitation? You think about it for a moment, closing your eyes as Allayah shifts to get more comfortable while still not being totally horizontal. "...I don't know. It's a long way, I guess, and you know I can't just...hop on a train and make it shorter. It feels like a lot."

"Makes sense." Your eyes are still closed, but you feel her weight shift as she shrugs. "Are you set on doing it all yourself, though?"

"Oh hell no. Not if I have any other options."

"Well, you do, because I can let you skip at least half the distance." Allayah grins when you open your eyes at that, looking inordinately pleased with herself. "Eric and I signed up to help clean the memorial at the big pokemon graveyard after the tornado last spring; we can take Butters and whoever you flew out here on—"

"Applesauce."

"Oh my _god_ , babe, you brought Applesauce and didn't even give me a chance to say hi? Rude. But yeah, I'll take you tomorrow." She smiles, this time with a conscious touch of mischief. " _You're_ riding Butters, though."

Hoo boy. Riding anything insectile is always an experience, even something as large as a Yanmega. It's not too far out of your comfort range, though, and you can always get back at her for it. In advance. Right now.

Allayah yelps when you hook an arm around her neck to pull her down beside you again, but it turns into a smothered laugh as soon as you kiss her. You think you really needed this break.


	11. Chapter 11

Eric's sorted himself out well enough by dinner time that he's the one who does most of the cooking, which is a relief both because he's worked out the current crisis _and_ because neither you nor Allayah are more than barely competent at this specific meal. He doesn't really talk to you, though—you get a lot of quick smiles and careful gestures by way of instruction on what he needs you to do next as you help with the meal prep. You...feel a little guilty, that without Karma you can't tell if he's gone nonverbal or if it's one of his more silent alters fronting. 

Then again Allayah can't either, and Eric's a lot closer to her than he is to you, both emotionally and (at least today) physically. She ends up spending the night with him instead of with you, after a good half-dozen reassurances from you that yes, that's fine, you're okay with it. It's not like you actually have to sleep _alone_ , after all—when Eric comes into the living room the next morning, he immediately starts laughing at how you've nearly disappeared under the sleeping pokemon on the couch with you, almost every one that doesn't spend the night in a pokeball of its own. 

"Oh, shut up." Cardtrick nuzzles further into the crook of your neck when you speak; you sigh and carefully brush her tail out of your face, trying to avoid the sleeping Glaceon's head where he has it pillowed on your chest. "This is good." 

"Mesquite, you _have_ a bed here," Eric points out, holding out his arms as the Leafeon curled up on your other side raises his head and blinks sleepily up at him. Once the pokemon gets to its feed and pads to the edge of the couch to be picked up, Eric adds, "A whole room, actually. A nice one. I picked out most of the furniture." 

"And it's very nice, but still." Alright, now, Icey's awake and sniffing after his brother, so Cardtrick's really the only pokemon who's still directly on top of you, and you can just wrap an arm around her for stability and sit up. Well, as long as you move slowly enough to knock any of the ones around you off. "Some of them don't like sleeping in there, so..." 

"And you _have_ to have all of them with you." Eric snorts out another laugh, holding out your glasses with the hand that's not supporting Verdant against his shoulder. He's about to need both hands, you note as you take them from him and settle them onto your nose; Icey already has both front paws on his thigh, maybe thirty seconds away from trying to climb him like a tree. He should probably pick him up before it gets to that point; you know from experience that that hurts. "You want to rock-paper-scissors for who does breakfast?" 

Well...yeah, you guess that's fair. You shift Cardtrick more securely onto your shoulder to get a hand free, holding out your fist as he counts off. 

Damn. He throws scissors to your paper. "So...pancakes, right?" 

"Pancakes sounds great." Eric flashes you a smile and sets Verdant down beside Icey, watching them butt green and pale blue heads together in the familiar mannerism they've had since they were tiny Eevees cared for by their Umbreon mother, then whistles the two-note combination that he and Allayah use to signal feeding time. Even Cardtrick perks up at that, squirming until you let her climb down. "You want to wake Al up too?" 

"I mean. If I'd known that was part of the deal with making breakfast, I think I'd've lost on purpose." 

Eric just laughs at that, scooping Cardtrick up out of the little crowd of larger pokemon gathered around his feet and settling her safely on his shoulder as he heads out into the yard. You swear she winks at you; at this point, you don't even question it.

* * *

The main reason that you can pull off making pancakes without any significant incidents is that Allayah knows you have significant issues with following every step of a recipe, especially first thing in the morning, and has planned appropriately. You may not be able to keep track of which ingredients you have and haven't added, but when it's just _dry_ and _wet_ to be mixed up and poured on a hot pan, you do just fine. 

Once the bowl of batter's empty and rinsed, you cover the pile of pancakes and leave them on the table while you go get Allayah up. Well, the _plan_ is to get her, at least—what actually happens is that she rolls over to blink sleepily as you open the door, smiles and holds out her arms, and there's really no way you can resist that invitation.

"Mmm." Her hair's braided back for the night, so you have an easier time sliding your arms around her and pulling her close enough that she can press her face into your neck and kiss the soft skin under your chin. "You smell like pancakes." 

"I did the breakfast, of course I do." Oh, you still end up with a faceful of white hair. Of course you do. You kiss the top of her head very carefully, trying not to end up with a _mouth_ ful. "Come on, I need you up." 

"Nuh-uh." 

"No?" 

"No—cuddle me." She puts a whine into that, drawing out the last word longer than it needs to be. 

You have to press your face to her hair to stifle the laugh that wants to come up. "Allayah, we have places to be, remember? I mean, _I_ do, anyway—" 

"Mesquite, it's _ten minutes_. You have ten minutes to spare." 

"Well..." 

"I'll put Butters in her pokeball and ride Applesauce with you." 

That's a bribe. That's definitely a bribe. Somehow you think you're just fine with it, though. "Deal. Start the timer and give me another kiss."

* * *

The pancakes are still warm ten minutes later, partially because Eric is a saint and put them on back on the warmer after he came and got some for himself. Cardtrick's waiting for you in the kitchen, playing with the handful of crystal prisms hung in the window; she knows she's not allowed to climb up and bat at them, but that's not stopping her from nudging at them with a gentle touch of telekinesis, then chasing the rainbows that the movement sends skittering across the floor. 

"You're going to be so worn out later," Allayah tells her. Cardtrick pauses in her hunt, considering that for a moment before looking up at you. 

You shrug and keep rolling up a pancake around the butter and syrup you've spread down one side of it. "Hey, as long as you don't come complaining to me when you have to sleep in the backpack? Have as much fun as you want." 

Cardtrick squeaks decisively and sends the crystals swaying again, tail twitching and fluffing up as she tracks a patch of color across the floor...and _pounces._

And then smacks headfirst into the wall, accompanied by Allayah's barely-smothered giggles. For a pokemon who's probably smarter than you are, she really is very silly sometimes. 

One more reason to love her, you guess.

* * *

As promised. Allayah rides behind you on Applesauce, her chin on your shoulder and her arms around your waist. Even Cardtrick seems calmer on this leg of the journey—she picks up on just how safe _you_ feel like this, maybe. It's just...it's very nice, doing this with Allayah, and you silently promise yourself that you're going to make a point to ask for this kind of ride more often. 

Not just now, though. When Applesauce lands just outside the memorial park, you put him in his pokeball, kiss Allayah goodbye and promise her that you'll keep her updated on your progress as her Yanmega stretches its wings. Cardtrick climbs up your leg and to your shoulder, perching there to watch with you until your girlfriend's out of sight. 

Once she is, you let out a breath and reach back to get your map out of the backpack that Eric helped you pack before you left. Time to go. 

...or not, because Cardtrick leaps off your shoulder and scurries over the ring of bricks set into the ground to mark the boundary of the park before you can even get the map out. You shrug and follow her; it's not like you'd deny her the chance to visit pokemon she (or you, even though you've never had a pokemon long enough for it to pass away) used to know. Plus you only barely have a schedule, anyway. More like a loose plan. 

Speaking of plans... "Cardtrick—wait. Heel. Come here." 

She stops for one of those—you're not sure which—and scampers back to you, sitting down on the brick path and cocking her head as you dig in your shoulder bag for the collar. You probably should have done this back at Allayah's place, but...oh well. It's not like you've found any aggressive or curious pokemon yet anyway. 

"Hold still." The Cleanse Tag is sealed between the clear layers of vinyl that makes up the collar you had custom-made to fit such a small Abra; Cardtrick squirms slightly as you buckle it on, ears flicking back for a moment as she adjusts to the pressure. "You can loosen it if you want, but _leave it on_. We're not here to catch new pokemon for the clinic, I don't want to deal with fights every ten minutes, and I _know_ you don't like an unfair fight any more than I do." 

You swear she rolls her eyes at you as you straighten up again, but they're too narrow to really be sure. Then she flicks her fail and scurries off down the path again, pausing every few seconds to be sure you're following. 

Which you are. Just...a bit more slowly, looking at the names on the bricks under your feet and thinking about them. Some regions build towers or entire towns to honor their former companions, and you guess you understand that—there's something about a structure that _physical_ , that _obvious_ —but the park....it makes more sense, to you at least. The structures built from the bricks people come here to make in the presses and kilns scattered around the perimeter of the park provide shelter to the pokemon who fear bright sunlight and open spaces, and the plants and trees growing here make this place a haven for other pokemon as well. And isn't that the point? Not just to honor the dead, but to provide for the living? 

You nearly step on Cardtrick's tail, look up, and realize that she's stopped and sat down to watch the fountain set in a wide place in the path. Like everything else here, it's built from those ash-grey bricks; you look down at her to see which one she's looking at. As if she's readin your mind (which she might be) Cardtrick hops to her feet and pads a few steps closer to the fountain, rising up on her hind legs to touch a specific brick with her nose. 

You have to kneel down to be able to read the lettering along the exposed side. "Louis, Machamp." There's no trainer's name, so you can't check it against the one in the metadata of Cardtrick's pokeball. The date's over two decades ago, though; you're willing to bet it'd match. "You knew him when you were younger, didn't you?" 

Cardtrick just nudges the hand you're using to trace the inscription with, butting her head into your palm until you start petting her. You guess that's fair—she doesn't like it when you try to ask about who owned her before you did, after all. Other than the owner directly before you, you know almost no specifics about her past—she's belonged to at least twelve trainers in seven regions, one of the first ones had her in some sort of circus or other performing job, and she's never evolved. 

Her taking you to see this memorial brick with her instead of just teleporting here and making you wait for her to come back...well. It's a show of trust, not just in showing you but in trusting that you won't force her to either answer your questions or play dumb, and you answer it by not asking any more than that first one. Instead, you keep petting Cardtrick, closing your eyes and tipping your head back to turn your face to the leaf-filtered sunlight as you wait for her to be ready to move on.

**Author's Note:**

> Have an idea for a character, pokemon, or scenario that you'd like to see? Feel free to request it in the comments, or send me a message or ask at[Mesquite's tumblr blog](https://askprofessormesquite.tumblr.com) !


End file.
